


This One Thing is Always Supposed to Stay

by rickyisms



Series: it all started with 1 (one) twitter DM [10]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Communication, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Graduation, Hockey Injuries, Just a sprinkle, M/M, Poor Coping Methods, Smut, Typical Hockey Violence, nhl expansion draft, probably, the long fic sequel i have been promising, we are bringing back the quebec nordiques
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:47:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 140,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25743805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rickyisms/pseuds/rickyisms
Summary: Connor Whisk knows exactly one thing for certain, he loves Kent Parson, okay, scratch that, he knows two things for certain, he loves Kent Parson and Kent Parson loves him back. What's going to happen beyond that, anyone's guess.
Relationships: Kent "Parse" Parson/Connor "Whiskey" Whisk
Series: it all started with 1 (one) twitter DM [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738009
Comments: 720
Kudos: 300





	1. I never thought that everything I had, would fade away

Connor Whisk does not captain his team to an NCAA championship in his fourth and final year at Samwell University, but Tony Tangredi does, and it’s pretty fucking special. Because it’s the third year in a row. Nobody bets on the tiny liberal arts college to build a mini-hockey dynasty, especially when they couldn’t even win with one of the NHL’s best forwards on their top line a few years ago. But they do it, and they do it three times.

Whiskey and Tango weren’t on the ice when the title clinching goal went in three seconds before the end of the third, it brought their 3-2 victory to a 4-2 victory and they jumped up into each other’s arms. The  _ A  _ on Whiskey’s chest matched the  _ C  _ on Tango’s and they whooped and hollered as the first year defenceman who’d ripped a slapshot in the dying seconds of the game punched the air like he couldn’t believe what had just happened. They gave Tango the trophy, then Whiskey, it went to the defenceman next who handed it off to the sophomore who’d replaced Chowder last year when he graduated. Tango put his arm on Whiskey’s shoulder. 

“Think they’re gonna be alright?” Tango asked. 

Whiskey nodded, Hops was sliding across the ice on his knees,hugged the goalie and whooped, “They’re gonna be great.”

“What a three-peat,” Ford said, suddenly appearing on the ice next to them. 

“What a three-peat,” the boys agreed and then they threw her onto their shoulders. 

“Wish he could have been here,” Tango said to him later in the locker room when he saw Whiskey checking his texts. 

Whiskey shrugged, “He’s got playoffs too, he would have been if there wasn’t a game tonight.”

“I know, man,” Tango said. 

That was nearly a month ago. Whiskey has most of his room packed away in a box, ready to either store in his parents’ garage or bring with him to Kent’s place for the summer. He’s putting his medal on top of his socks, his third in as many years. His mom’s going to want them for the trophy shelf, she won’t ask for them, but she’ll dig them out of his luggage and put them in the living room. 

He hears a knock on his door frame, he leaves his door slightly ajar sometimes now, different than when he moved in last year and left it closed all the time. 

“Hey,” Ford’s voice is quiet, “You ready to go?” She asks. 

Whiskey nods, “Gonna grab a jacket,” he says. 

“Tango’s waiting with the Waffles,” she says.

Whiskey nods. She puts her arm around his waist and leans against his shoulder. An awkward sideways hug, but Whiskey smiles anyway. She’s wearing the SMH dress that she made herself in her first year as team manager. It feels appropriate for tonight. 

Murray and Hall always leave the door to the ice unlocked the night before commencement, they’re good at conveniently forgetting stuff like that. 

The thing Whiskey’s going to miss the most about Faber isn’t the way the light comes in during their afternoon games, or the players lounge stocked with powerade, or the sweet old lady who works at the concessions stand, or the fans, he’ll miss the way his heart twists when he walks in the door. When the temperature drops and the smell of ice hits his nose. The Waffles and the Crickets and a few of the freshers stand on the bench. They walk through the back hallway. Whiskey knows exactly how many steps it takes to get from the dressing room to the ice. He’ll never walk that path as a rostered player of Samwell Men’s Hockey ever again. He hears Ford sniffle, he reaches over to squeeze her shoulder. 

Tango takes a deep breath and unlatches the gate. The dull metallic thud echoes over the empty arena. Tango takes the first step out, Ford and Whiskey half a pace behind. Whiskey looks out into the stands. He’s seen them packed during homecoming, seen them sparse during exam week. He’s seen them bursting with kids during school day games and empty save for the girl who kept stats for the coaching staff during practice. There’s no one in the red seats now, no one cheering or screaming or jotting down notes. 

“It’s beautiful,” Ford says. 

She’s looking out the window, the moonlight streams in over the ice. 

“It is,” Tango says, he’s looking back at the team. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey’s looking up at the scoreboard. 

“Well,” Tango says. 

He kicks the ice with the tip of his sneaker and gets to his knees. Ford and Whiskey follow. Whiskey’s hands touch the ice, his knees are wet and there’s a lump in his throat. 

“On three,” Ford says. 

“Okay,” Tango agrees. 

Whiskey nods. 

“Wait,” Whiskey says, and he reaches out to grab Ford’s hand. 

Ford takes it immediately, extends her other hand to Tango. 

“There’s no one I would have rather done this with than you guys,” Whiskey says. 

“You’re gonna make me cry,” Ford says, there are already tears in her eyes. 

“One,” Tango says. 

“Two,” Whiskey says. 

“Three,” Ford says. 

Whiskey bends down, he presses his lips to the ice, feels a single tear spill out over his cheeks and down onto the ice. It’s cold and solid and it’s just a sheet of ice. But it’s a sheet of ice he’s bled on, and worked on and hugged his very best friends on. Ford squeezes his hand. Whiskey takes his lips off the ice and sighs. Runs his hand over it one last time. It’s something he never thought he’d say, he’s going to miss this place, he’s going to miss what they did here. The three get to their feet, still holding hands, Tango has his arm on Ford’s shoulder now. 

“Roof?” Ford asks. 

“Roof,” Louis agrees, “I already put a case of coolers on the roof.”

“May you never stop planning kegsters,” Ford laughs. 

Ford runs ahead to give Hops her keys to unlock the door to the roof. 

Tango trails behind with Whiskey. 

“You know I wish we could have given her the C,” Tango says. 

Whiskey nods, “She’s the captain, doesn’t need the letter to prove it.”

Hops starts the fire in the little fire pit. Ford brings a blanket out from her backpack and drapes it over Whiskey and Tango’s laps before settling in between them. 

“So, you guys figure out what comes next?” Bully asks. 

“I’m doing a masters,” Ford answers, “What else do you do with a theatre degree?”

“Be an actor?” Tango asks. 

Ford rolls her eyes, “I don’t need a degree for that Tony,” she elbows Tango, “I think maybe I’ll just become a reclusive academic who writes papers reads Shakespeare for the rest of my life.”

“Nursey wants what you have,” Louis says. 

They chuckle. 

“I’m working at a summer camp starting in June,” Tango says, “After that I think I might do teacher’s college, apply to start in the winter.”

“You guys liked school too much,” Whiskey elbows his friends, “It’s too late for me to play anywhere else this year, but I’m a free agent so, hockey,” Whiskey shrugs, “Somewhere,” he hopes his friends don’t notice how he shakes when he takes a deep breath. His friends have such solid plans, he doesn’t like how much of his future is still undecided. 

The three graduating seniors leave before the rest of the team. It feels right, they finished reminiscing, now it’s time to let the kids plan for the future. 

“See you, captain,” Tango fist bumps Hops and Hops nods, the responsibility not lost on him. 

The Haus is empty when they return so they climb out onto the roof. A bottle of wine comes out of Ford’s backpack. 

“Is he coming tomorrow?” Tango asks, taking the first swig of rose. 

Whiskey shrugs, “I don’t know. He said he wants to.”

“They’re in…” Ford trails off. 

“Nashville,” Whiskey says. 

“That’s uh, a hike,” Ford says. 

“Yeah, I’ll see him soon. I’m not expecting him.”

Ford frowns. 

“Hey,” Whiskey says, “It’s not like we haven’t been dealing with this for nearly three years now. It’s not a big deal.”

Ford leans against his shoulder, Tango leans against hers. 

“My brothers are coming,” she smiles, “Dad can’t make it but they wanted to come, idiots,” she rolls her eyes. Her middle brother just finished his first year at UCLA, her youngest is going into senior year of high school. 

“The whole Tangredi clan is coming down to make a scene,” Tango grins, “How ‘bout the Whisks?”

“They’re probably already checked into a hotel in Boston,” Whiskey says. 

“I can’t believe it’s over,” Ford says, “Looking up into the night sky, “Went fast,” she says, “I don’t know if I appreciated all the last times.”

“Last times?” Tango asks.

“Last cast party,” Ford says, “I dunno, last seminar.”

“Last dining hall chicken finger,” Whiskey suggests.

Ford giggles, “Exactly.” 

“Pass me that,” he grabs the wine from Tango and takes to big gulps before getting serious, “I didn’t think I’d be here for all four years. You guys know,” he mumbles, “But uh, when I got here I thought only losers played four years of college hockey, so uh, thanks for proving me wrong and making this a place I want to be.”

“Awww,” Ford says, “He does have feelings.”

“If you tell anybody, I’ll claim I blacked out,” Whiskey only half kids. 

Ford rolls her eyes. 

“The group chat lives on, right?” Tango asks. 

“Always and forever,” Whiskey says in answer. 

“Bros for life,” Ford agrees. 


	2. Hundredth time I've thought of you tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> commencement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from your graduation by modern baseball because that's what i'm listening to

They end up falling asleep, right there on the roof, they only wake up when Hops, Louis and Bully come home at the crack of dawn chattering loudly on the porch. Whiskey lifts his head from Ford’s shoulder, he blearily. The sky is pink, the sun poking over the houses on the other side of the street. He elbows Ford as she stirs. 

“What time is it?” Tango shouts down at the waffles. 

“5:30!” Bully shouts up to the roof, not even questioning why they’re up there. 

Tango yawns, “I’m meeting my family for breakfast.”

Ford nods, “I think I’m gonna hit the shower.”

Whiskey moves away, the three of them slowly climb in through the window. Commencement’s at three, Tango’s going to breakfast at 10 and Ford has a breakfast with the theatre club to go to a little after that. Whiskey thinks he could probably go to sleep for a couple hours, but he’s been awake, thinking for too long. There’s a tightness in his chest, the anticipation of what’s to come, the knowledge that everything is about to change hangs over him. 

He decides to go for a run. The campus is mostly dead at this time of morning. Whiskey jogs across the street, past the lacrosse frat. There’s a single blue solo cup on the lawn. He runs past the academic buildings and the dining hall, across the quad, past the dorms and down to the lake. He finally sits down on top of the picnic table at the shore, catching his breath. 

He watches the sunrise over the lake. Today, he’s going to be handed a red folder, and he’ll open it and it’ll have his degree in it. Four years of work on a single piece of paper. Of course, the paper’s only part of it. Only represents the classwork. There’s no paper that gives him credit for every late night run to Annie’s, every kegster, every WTF group hug and a late night study session that quickly turned into a bitching circle. But that piece of paper still matters, because he gets to say he finished. He stuck this out, and maybe that piece of paper can represent all those other things, because without them, he would have never stick it out. He sighs. 

Students are starting to mill around, they’ll be setting up the quad for commencement soon, so Whiskey leaves. He jogs back to the Haus, he’s uncharacteristically sentimental, but he figures he can have this moment. He can do this once, he can have this moment. 

He jogs up the stairs, runs into Ford as she comes out of the shower. 

“Dibs on the bathroom!” He shouts. 

“Damn it!” Hops groans from his bedroom, “Louis’ hogging ours,”

“Snooze you lose,” Whiskey shrugs. 

He thinks about how uncomfortable he was when he moved in here, how he never could have joked around. This feels like home now, and just as soon as he feels settled, he has to leave. He showers quickly out of consideration for Hops and then flops down in his own bed. He sets an alarm for 11 and lies down. He doesn’t think he’ll fall asleep but he loses time somewhere along the way and the next thing he knows, his alarm’s going off. A second later he hears Ford knocking on his door frame. 

He scrambles to cover his bare chest, he had the sense to put on a pair of shorts before he passed out but. 

Ford rolls her eyes, “oh no, what will we ever do if I see your nipples,” she feigns horror. 

He sighs and sits up, “How was your breakfast?” he asks. 

She shrugs, “Loud.” she sits down on the edge of his bed.

“Were you expecting the theatre club breakfast to be polite?”

“No,” she snorts, “I’m gonna miss those absolute bastards.”

“I thought we were your bastards,” Whiskey elbows her in the leg. 

“No, you’re my morons.”

“Always will be,” Whiskey says.

“Look at you being all sentimental.”

“One day only,” Whiskey smiles. 

“I’m gonna do my nails, come upstairs and help me pick a colour,” she says. 

“Yeah okay,” Whiskey shrugs. 

He pulls a shirt off the top of one of the boxes and throws it on. 

He ends up picking a dark yellow colour to go with her light yellow sundress. She sits on the floor and does her nails. 

“What do you think?” she holds her nails up, the colour pops against her dark skin. 

“Looks good,” Whiskey says.

She smiles and blows on them, “Hear anything from Kent?” she asks. 

Whiskey shakes his head, “He has morning skate,” Whiskey says, “I doubt he can make it.”

Ford frowns, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, I’m flying home with my parents but after that I’m going to Vegas.”

She nods, “Have uh… have the Aces offered you anything yet?” she asks. 

He shakes his head, “I don’t know,” he sighs, “There’s still a lot up in the air. The draft’s in June, I’m not eligible, but teams usually announce signings after that, once they know what gaps they need to fill. I guess we’re just waiting to see what gaps there are to fill.”

“Hmm,” Ford says, “Yeah,you’ll end up somewhere, too good not to.”

“I hope so.”

“Did you decide what tie you’re going to wear?” she asks. 

“I dunno, Tango said he’s got an extra one for me.”

“God boys are so lame.”

He shrugs, “It’s gonna be under the gown anyway.”

“You should get dressed,” she says, “Or we’re gonna be late.”

Whiskey agrees, puts on a pair of slacks, one of his white dress shirts and a belt and heads back upstairs. Ford is doing her makeup, she’s added a yellow hair bow to the look. 

“Lookin’ good,” he says before flopping down on her bed. 

He hears Tango banging up the stairs a few minutes later. 

“Oh good! You’re wearing the yellow,” he says to Ford. 

He pulls two golden yellow ties out of his back pocket. He’s already wearing a pair of slacks and a dress shirt from breakfast. 

He throws one of the ties at Whiskey, Whiskey catches it with one hand. 

“So we can match!” he says. 

Whiskey smiles. He tosses the tie back to Tango, “Thanks,” he says, and Tango starts tying it for him without prompting and then throws it back at him. Whiskey throws it over his head and adjusts it slightly.

“Aw look at us,” Ford says, “We have to take a picture in front of the Haus in our gowns when we get home, she says. 

“We should take a picture now,” Tango says, “Before and after graduation.”

“Yeah,” Ford agrees, she hands Whiskey her phone to take the picture since he has the longest arms, they snap a couple selfies and Whiskey notices how happy they look in all of them.

They head to the lake quad, they have to sign in at a table near the business building to get their caps and gowns. The seating is alphabetical so they say goodbye to each other. Whiskey sees his parents near the front of the crowd, gives them a small wave. The Tangredis must have found and immediately befriended the Whisks because they’re sitting next to his parents, all 12 of them, chattering away. He does a quick scan of the crowd knowing he’s going to be disappointed, looking for an aces hat, or an ugly plaid shirt, a mess of blond curls. He doesn’t see anything, of course. 

He sits between a girl named Elizabeth Warden and a boy named Alex Wilmington. The Tango’s only a row ahead of them, Ford’s near the front. When they call her name, Tango gives him a look and without saying anything to each other, they both holler, standing up and clapping for their friend. She graduated with honours and the department award for theatre majors. She waves them off but grins anyway. It’s hot and Whiskey can feel sweat pooling in his gown but he stays anyway. He watches as other graduates cross the stage and their friends cheer. He sees Chad, the lacrosse team screams for him, hears Ford cheering for some of her theatre friends.

Even though he can’t see Ford the both start cheering for Tango at the same time. He pulls his hockey helmet off of his head and shakes it into the air. The crowd cheers extra loud, the hockey team their newest pride and joy. Whiskey can hear the Waffles cheering just as loud. Then his row gets up, he has his cap under his chair, his helmet on his head. He gets a solid round of applause for that but the only voices he cares about are Tango and Ford’s. He shakes hands and smiles for a picture as he accepts his diploma. He takes a moment to look out over the crowd. What a weird fucking school. 

The last row takes the stage and then they listen to the graduation speech and they throw their hats in the air and then it’s chaos, everyone rushing around to hug their friends. Tango finds Whiskey first and pulls him into a massive hug and then Ford’s there and the Waffles swarm around them and Whiskey sees his parents standing hesitant at a distance. So he pulls away from his friends and walks over to his parents, his degree folder in hand. 

He pulls his mom into a hug while his dad claps him on the shoulder 

“That was uh, quite the ceremony,” his dad says. 

“Thanks dad,” Whiskey nods. 

“You uh, you did good,” Stephen says. 

“I already have a frame picked out,” his mom says. 

“Great,” Whiskey smiles. 

“We’ll get dinner before we catch the flight,” his dad says, “I think Tony’s family have reservations too.”

The thing about his parents, is they don’t actually  _ say  _ it when they’re proud. He’s learned not to take it personally, not to need it. 

“Hey!” He turns around at Ford’s voice. 

“Do you mind if we borrow Connor for a minute,” she asks. 

His parents barely have time to say yes before she’s yanking him by the arm and running across the quad with him. 

“What?” he sputters. 

They sprint away from the crowd, Whiskey following her lead. She takes him behind the stage, there’s a rack of gowns and a few support staff, and Tango, standing under the shade of an oak tree. 

“Someone wanted to see you,” Tango says, he’s grinning his stupid lopsided grin. 

Kent steps out from behind a rack of graduation gowns. He’s wearing a pair of sunglasses pushed up onto his head and Whiskey’s brain breaks. 

“H-How?” he stammers, arms open, stepping forward.

He hugs Kent with a ferocity, holds him so tight that his hands shake. He feels Kent’s hands clutching the back of the black graduation gown. Kent kisses his shoulder, head pressed against the fabric of his shirt. 

“I’m so so so proud of you,” Kent says, his voice is muffled and Whiskey thinks he might cry. 

“You look good in a gown,” Kent says. 

Whiskey puts his hands on either side of Kent’s face and kisses him. There’s no one around but it’s still risky. Whiskey doesn’t care at this specific moment. 

Kent puts his hand on Whiskey’s shoulder. 

“I wasn’t gonna miss this for anything,” Kent says. 

“I can’t believe…” Whiskey trails off. 

“If you see my coach, I was never here and I have food poisoning.”

Whiskey laughs and pulls Kent close to his chest again. When he looks back he sees the tears in Kent’s eyes, he’s looking at Whiskey like he makes the world turn round. 

Kent wipes them away and smiles, “You did it,” he says. 

“Thank you,” Whiskey says, he feels himself getting just a little bit choked up, “I couldn’t have done this without you,” he continues, thinking back to all the nights Kent stayed up to keep him moving during all-nighters, all the times he quizzed him on his flash cards, all the times he was just  _ there.  _

“You’re smart,” Kent says, “You would have found a way.”

Whiskey’s not so sure so he just shrugs. 

“We should get a picture of you two!” Ford says. 

So the pose with Kent’s arm around Whiskey’s waist, Kent kisses him on the cheek for the second one. 

“Uh,” Whiskey says, “My parents are gonna want to say hi.”

Kent nods, he puts his sunglasses down over his eyes and pulls a mets snapback out of his back pocket and puts it on his head. 

“Okay,” Kent says simply. 

Kent hangs back with Ford and Tango as Whiskey approaches his parents. He taps his mom on the back, she turns around. 

“Uh, Kent’s here,” he says. 

Kent gives a small wave, his mom breaks out into a grin. 

“Hi sweetheart,” she says, walks over to kiss him on the cheek. His dad claps Kent on the shoulder. 

“Aren’t you in Nashville?” his dad asks. 

Kent laughs, “If my coach calls, I still am,” he says, “I took a redeye, flight back leaves at midnight.”

“Oh, you must be tired,” Whiskey’s mom says, politely engaged. 

Kent shrugs, “I’m a pro at sleeping on planes.”

“Oh good, join us for dinner?” his mom asks. 

“Uhhh,” Kent says, “Yeah, why not,” he shrugs. 

“I’ve got one more suitcase to pack,” Whiskey says. 

“Okay,” his dad says, “We’ll bring the car to the house, I’m sure you’ll want to say goodbye after dinner but lets get your things in the trunk before we’re all stuffed.”

“I’ll help!” Kent volunteers. 

Whiskey knew his parents had accepted Kent as a permanent part of their life when they started letting him help out, the first time his mom asked Kent to set the table, Whiskey almost cried. 

“We’ll walk back, if that’s okay,” Whiskey says, looking over at Tango and Ford

His parents nod. 

“We’ll take the long way,” his dad pats his shoulder, “Make sure you don’t forget anything.”

Kent’s shoulder bumps into his a couple times on the walk back to the Haus, Kent grabs his hand once they hit the front lawn and no one else is around. 

Kent takes a picture of Whiskey, Tango, and Foxtrot in front of the steps. Whiskey and Kent walk into his bedroom while the other two finish packing the attic. 

“Swoops is going to be disappointed that he can’t call you my college boyfriend anymore.”

“Let him know I’m sorry,” Whiskey fake pouts. He grabs Kent’s hands with both of his and kisses him softly. 

“I still can’t believe you’re here.”

“I promised I would be,” Kent says. 

“When?”

“Two years ago,” Kent says, “I told you if you graduated I’d be here.”

Whiskey sits down on the edge of his bed, he took the sheets off this morning. He sighs. Kent sits down next to him. Whiskey rests his head on Kent’s shoulder. 

“Gonna miss it?” Kent asks. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “It was time though, time to do something else.”

Kent squeezes Whiskey’s knee. 

“Remember when you snuck in that window?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent laughs, “Yep.”

“Won’t miss that.”

“Ah, I started using the front door eventually,” Kent waves his hand.

“You made Ford clear the Haus and check for freshmen first.”

“Babe,” Kent deadpans, “I am a minor celebrity, I can’t be seen by the  _ freshmen, _ ” he feigns horror. 

Whiskey rolls his eyes, he pushes Kent over, swings his legs up onto the bed and kisses him. Kent yelps, a surprised little noise muffled by Whiskey’s mouth. Kent’s hand wraps around the back of Whiskey’s neck and pulls him closer. Whiskey thinks about what Ford said about last times the other night. He knocks Kent’s hat off to tangle his hand in his hair. 

“I love you,” he mutters against Kent’s neck. 

Kent sighs happily, mumbles something againstWhiskey’s lips, probably  _ I love you too _ , but it gets lost against Whiskey’s tongue. 

Someone clears their throat, it’s not Whiskey or Kent. Tango taps on Whiskey’s doorframe. Whiskey looks up. 

“Sorry,” Tango mumbles, “Your parents want to know if you’re ready to start bringing stuff down.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, realizing how out of breath he is a second too late. He gets off of Kent and nods. 

“What do you need me to grab?” Kent asks. 

“I’ve only got four suitcases,” Whiskey says, “If we each grab two we won’t have to make two shifts. My hockey bag’s already downstairs.”

Kent nods. 

“Don’t let my dad boss you around,” Whiskey says as they walk down the stairs. 

Kent laughs. They throw the suitcases into the car. Kent discretely slips his arm around Whiskey’s waist as Tango and Whiskey’s dad heave his hockey bag on top of the pile of luggage. 

He takes a deep breath. 

“Thank you,” He whispers to Kent. 

The future holds, something, but right now, he’s holding Kent, and he can wait to find out what comes next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have Made Myself Emo


	3. I just miss how it felt standing next to you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whiskey might drive himself insane watching Kent's game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from before the world was big by girlpool

It’s hot in his parents house but that’s not why Whiskey wakes up sweaty. Kent’s name is on the tip of his tongue, like he’s about to call out for him. He has nightmares, he always has, but over the week he’s been back home, they’ve gotten worse, a little bit stranger. The first night he’d been home, he dreamt that he and Kent were on a boat in the middle of a lake. He’d turned away from Kent for a moment and when he looked back he was gone. Whiskey searched , panic rising in his chest, never finding Kent, finally waking up shaking. He dreams about showing up to the rink at Samwell only to be confronted with the fact that he wasn’t allowed on the ice, dreams about Kent getting pulled away from him, being in a room and the floor falling away under Kent. 

His heart’s pounding, he hears ringing in his ears. It takes him a minute to realize that the ringing is coming from his phone. Kent.  _ Kent.  _ He’s here, well, somewhere at least. 

“Hello,” he answers instantly, shooting up in bed. 

“Hi,” Kent’s voice is soft. 

It’s one of his off days, he’s in Vegas. Whiskey wishes he was too, but his mom’s making him sort through his things.It’s fine, he’ll be in Vegas for the next round, for the finals. 

If Kent wins, he has to keep reminding himself of that. That Kent might not win. 

“It’s late,” Whiskey says. 

“I’m sorry,” Kent says, “Did I wake you up.”

“Don’t apologize,” Whiskey says, “I don’t think so. I woke up anyway.”

“Okay,” Kent says, “I just uh,” he sighs, “Feelin’ it,” he says. 

Whiskey nods, “Yeah.”

“The uh, condo feels bigger without you.”

Whiskey’s heart sinks, he can hear Kent trying to steady his breathing. 

“Do you want me to come? I can be there by morning?” Whiskey asks, already prepared to drop everything and grab the keys to his dad’s old car. 

“No,” Kent says, “No,” firmer this time, “Just,” he sighs, “It doesn’t get any easier.”

“What?” 

“This part,” Kent says, “Waiting around. I thought it would get easier, you know, because I’ve been here before, but it’s not, it’s really really not.”

“You can do this,” Whiskey provides, feeling mostly useless. 

“I know that, it’s not the doing it that sucks,” Kent says, “It’s the waiting around, the fact that I just can’t get it over with and  _ do it _ , I’m just stuck here,  _ thinking, _ and all I can think about is every single way it’s going to go wrong.”

“Oh baby,” Whiskey says, his voice is low. It’s not that he’s hiding Kent from his parents anymore, it’s just late and it’s polite and he doesn’t want to wake them. 

“I know it’s dumb.”

“It’s not,” Whiskey says quickly, “You’re playing an elimination game in less than 24 hours, of course you’re anxious.”

Kent takes a deep shaky breath and Whiskey wants nothing more than to be able to hold him through it.

“I love you,” Kent says, “Thank you. I didn’t… I just felt alone. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

“You didn’t,” Whiskey insists. 

“I just,” Kent sighs, “God, if we lose to Nashville  _ again, _ ”

“It’ll suck,” Whiskey says. 

“Kent Parson can’t get it done,” Kent sighs, “It’s like they’re ready to retire me.”

“You’re 28,” Whiskey reminds him, “And you have to stop paying attention to ESPN.”

Kent laughs bitterly, “This one was on NBCSN.”

Whiskey rolls his eyes, “Either way I can guarantee some dumbass said it.”

“Well I listened so who’s really the dumbass?” Kent asks. 

It’s a joke but Whiskey sighs, “Kent,”

“Connor,” Kent sighs back. 

“I miss you,” Whiskey says. 

He hears a sniffle on the other end of the phone, the distinct sound of Kent clearing his throat, “I miss you too,” it comes out choked. 

Whiskey sits straight up, “Kent, are you sure you don’t want me to come, I mean it, I could be there by morning.”

“No,” Kent says, “It’s okay, I promise, the sooner you get everything sorted out at home, the sooner you can come here.”

Whiskey sighs, “I know. It’s just… are you crying?”

“A little,” Kent admits, “I’m okay, mostly, I promise. It’s just stress.”

“I know,” Whiskey says. 

He still wants to be there, hold Kent close to his chest, run his fingers through Kent’s hair in the way Whiskey knows he likes. He wants to tell him it’ll be okay, he can do that from here, but he wants to whisper it against his skin. He  _ knows  _ he can make Kent feel better, that he has a good shoulder for crying on. 

“What if this is it?” Kent asks. 

“What do you mean?” Whiskey says, he knows. 

“What if I never win again?”

Whiskey feels a lump in his throat, because he knows how Kent gets about winning, knows how useless and hopeless he feels when he can’t win. And Whiskey’s held him through every loss for the past two years. And he’s felt guilty both times, how can he console Kent after winning the NCAA title? How can he tell Kent not to feel like a loser when he’s won three years straight. Kent’s won a Stanley cup twice in his career, his third and fourth seasons, back to back. For nearly five years, the Aces had been the team to beat. But everyone can see the sun setting on them. Their goalie’s starting to fall off and guys are getting older, prospect pool getting smaller. Kent’s still producing like he was when he was 21, but he’s stretching himself thinner and thinner to do it. 

“You will,” Whiskey says simply, because Kent wins, that’s what he does. 

“I don’t know,”

“I’ll love you no matter what,” Whiskey adds. 

And then he hears Kent start sniffling again, a sob comes out as he tries to get it under control. Whiskey’s trying not to cry himself, he swats a tear off of his cheek. 

“I know,” Kent says, “I love you so much. Thank you.”

“Dad’s having a watch party, you know?” Whiskey says, “The neighbours are coming over. They’re excited.”

“I hope I don’t let them down,” Kent says. 

“You won’t,” Whiskey promises, “My mom called you my  _ partner,  _ yesterday,” he says, it’s the tiniest smallest step, but for his mother it feels like leaps and bounds, “And like, that makes it sound like we own a law firm together, but she finally  _ said  _ it.”

“That’s amazing,” Kent says. And now that they’re not talking about hockey, Whiskey can hear his breath starting to slow. He yawns, Whiskey smiles. 

“Are you gonna sleep tonight?” he tries to keep any judgement out of his tone, he knows Kent doesn’t sleep well when he’s anxious and there’s not much anyone can do about it. 

“I think I’ll try,” Kent says, “Kit’s passed out on your pillow.”

_ His pillow _ . He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to things in Kent’s life being entirely his, still fills him with joy. 

“I can’t wait to tell her to move,” Whiskey smiles.

“Can we facetime?” Kent asks, “Just uh, just so I don’t have to go to sleep alone?” His voice is small, nearly three years in and he still hates asking for things. 

“Of course.”

Kent has his phone positioned against Whiskey’s pillow. It’s not like he’s in bed with Kent, but it’s as close as they can get right now. Whiskey relishes in it. Kent looks so tired and it hurts Whiskey somewhere in his chest. He just wants to reach out and touch. To run his fingers over Kent’s eyelids, so soft, gentle. Kent snores. Whiskey’s glad. 

He wakes up when his dad walks into his room without knocking. He sits up with a start. 

“Sorry, I thought you were awake,” his dad says. 

“Clearly not,” Whiskey rubs his eyes. 

“Mom wanted me to get you for breakfast.”

“Yeah, okay,” Whiskey says, “I’ll get dressed.”

Whiskey floats through the rest of the day just doing what he’s told. His mom gets him to sort through his clothes. They start putting things in boxes, take a few of the boxes to the old car that they’re letting Whiskey use for the summer. He’s lived with Kent before, but this summer it’s different. This time it doesn’t feel like they’re just living together, this time it really feels like they’re moving in. Like Kent’s condo is about to be theirs, really  _ theirs.  _ Well, at least until Whiskey has to go to training camp. If Whiskey gets invited to training camp. He helps his mom decide which of his old things should go up to the attic and which are fine to throw into a donation bin. It’s fine, he’s not really attached to most of the things his parents have held on to and it’s not helped by the fact that the only thing he can think of is Kent’s game later tonight.

It’s not that he needs Kent to win for himself, he doesn’t need Kent to win. But there’s a part of him that thinks Kent might need Kent to win. There’s only so many times Whiskey can console him and tell him he’s good enough before he stops believing it. 

Rachel comes over and they have approximately thirty seconds to say hello before Mrs. Whisk is sending them out to get snacks and drinks. Whiskey snatches the keys off the counter and they jog out the door together. 

“I thought you hated driving,” Rachel says, sliding into the passenger seat. 

Whiskey shrugs, “Kent made me learn to parallel park last summer,” he says, “I kind of got over it when I started picking him up from the airport and stuff.”

Rachel’s smile to herself is small but it’s there, and Whiskey catches it. 

“What?” he asks, smile creeping onto his own face. 

“Nothing,” Rachel says. 

“C’mon, what?” 

She sighs, “I just love how in love you are.”

He rolls his eyes, “Dork.”

She leans over the centre console and kisses him on the cheek, “I hope he’s a good teacher.”

He pulls out of the driveway, hits the curb, maybe on purpose and she shrieks. 

“So,” she says, “Moving in with him?”

“Did my mom tell you?” he asks. 

“Your dad,” she shakes her head, “He literally would not shut up about you two.”

“Oh,” Whiskey says, “I just, wouldn’t have expected that.”

She shrugs, “I think he’s trying. One thing’s for sure, he thinks Kent’s the coolest guy in the world.”

“He’d probably still prefer if we were together.”

“Wouldn’t be so sure,” Rachel says. 

Whiskey just shrugs, “Come on, my mom gave us a list.” he pulls into the parking lot. 

Rachel stands on the end of the cart, leaning forward while Whiskey does his best to push the cart and actually complete the task at hand.

“So if you’re moving in does that mean you’re gonna get engaged soon?” she says, Whiskey can tell by the expression on her face that she’s just teasing, it always works. 

“Fuck off,” he says, he throws a bag of chips into the cart more aggressively than he would otherwise. 

“Oh come on,” she pouts. 

He sighs, “There’s a lot of stuff still up in the air,” he says. 

“Like what?” she grabs a bag of M&Ms off the shelf. 

“That’s not on the list,” Whiskey says. 

“Like what?” she asks again. 

“Where I’m going to play, for one thing,” Whiskey says. 

“You still don’t know.”

Whiskey shrugs, “There are some teams but it’s a weird year.”

“How so?” Rachel asks. 

“Expansion draft, I think everyone’s waiting to figure out what they’ll need after that.”

“Where’s the new team?”

“Quebec City,” Whiskey says. 

“I think you should come to Minnesota,” Rachel smirks. 

“Why so we can be roommates? No way, I’m not living with a med student,” Whiskey snorts, then he gets serious, “I dunno. It could happen. I’m trying to stay out of it as much as possible, my agent knows what he’s doing.”

Rachel frowns, “I’m sorry, that sucks.”

Whiskey shrugs, “Is what it is. We need sour cream.”

That ends the conversation. He’s decidedly, not talking about it, not even so much as thinking about it until he has a concrete answer. 

He tricks Rachel into ranting about school which is always a solid way to avoid having to talk about himself. He likes to listen anyway, he’s good at nodding in the right spots and asking the right questions and he likes hearing Rachel’s thoughts and opinions and she’s just so much smarter than he can even imagine himself being that it’s never boring to listen to her talk. 

They get back to the Whisk house half an hour before the pregame show starts. Whiskey hears the sound of sports-talk TV and rolls his eyes, he wants nothing more than to tune out whatever they’re about to say about Kent. 

“Groceries are here mom!” he says louder than he would normally so he can drown out the sound of the TV. Rachel flops down into the armchair while Whiskey unpacks the groceries. He sends Kent their usual pre-game, “good luck, love you,” text and then he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s pacing around the back of the couch, Rachel’s parent’s show up just as warmups are about to start and there’s pizza and snacks and someone hands Whiskey a cocktail and it takes him a second to realize it was Rachel. 

He’s not deliberately dismissive when her parents ask about his plans for next season but he realizes that’s probably how he sounds half a second later. He can’t even explain why he seems so cagey, not in front of his parents’ friends. He knows it’s for the best, but sometimes not being able to talk about Kent fucking sucks. 

He sits in the armchair, it’s big enough that Rachel can sit up next to him. She rests her head on his shoulder and he puts his arm around her. He sees her mom give them a strange look but they both ignore it. 

Whiskey takes a deep breath when warmup starts. Rachel squeezes his shoulder, he takes another sip of his drink. He’s sure the people around him are talking but he’s not listening. 

“Connor?” his mother says and he realizes that someone’s asked him a question. 

“How did you and Kent Parson meet?” Rachel’s dad repeats the question. 

“Oh,” Whiskey says, “Uh, hockey,” he shrugs, “He messaged me on twitter after one of my games just to talk about hockey and stuff, hung out and stuff,” he says, lies that are almost the truth are the easiest ones to tell, “He’s uh, a good dude, we’re close. Good roommate.”

Rachel’s dad nods. 

“It must be nice to have a mentor like that,” Rachel’s mom says. 

Whiskey nods again, polite. If he wasn’t so nervous about the fact that Kent’s literal minutes away from taking the ice, he’d probably laugh at the concept of Kent being his  _ mentor _ . 

His brain is just a constant stream of Kent’s name until the puck drops and then he’s in the hockey game. His brain shifts into watching mode and there’s not much that can pull him out of it. He feels Rachel squeezing his shoulder as he leans forward, he tracks the puck and then he tracks Kent tracking the puck. He doesn’t move much. He finishes his first drink by the end of the first and Rachel hands him another on. 

“Thanks,” he says. 

The Aces are down 1-0 and Whiskey feels like his heart’s in his throat. Everyone around him is chatting idly. Rachel answers his parents’ questions about school and life and whether or not she’s going back to Minnesota (she is). And Whiskey has to be pulled out of his own thoughts to be asked to pass a bottle opener to his mom. 

He takes a deep breath as the second starts. 

“Do you know him, hon?” Rachel’s mom asks when the camera pans to Swoops about to take a faceoff. 

Whiskey nods, “Kent’s friend, we’ve hung out.”

“Oh wow, what’s he like?” She asks. 

Whiskey’s normally happy to talk during a game, but not this one, he knows he’s being short with everyone but he can’t do anything else today. 

“He’s a good guy,” is all Whiskey says. 

The conversation shifts away from Whiskey. He launches forward when Kent gets the puck on his stick early in the second. He knows Kent’s good at hockey, but it hits him just  _ how amazing  _ he is when he spins around a defender and passes it to one of the D-men on his backhand. He’s just  _ so good  _ and he can do this and Whiskey feels it in his chest that Kent can do this. 

Kent gets the puck on his stick again and he’s open and he claps a one timer. The goal horn sounds and everyone in the room jumps up. Whiskey’s cheers get lost in the screams and the hope bubbles up into his chest again. Kent can do this, Kent deserves this. Kent can do this. 

Rachel punches him on the back of the shoulder and gives him a knowing smirk. Stephen’s pumping his fist as he sits down. Kent can do this, he’s good at this, he’s a winner.

He lets out a breath that had been hiding in his lungs. And then Kent gets scrappy. The shift after he scores his goal, one of the Nashville Predators starts shoving him from behind. Kent turns around and Whiskey sees the smirk on his face as he starts shoving back, there’s a glint in his eyes and Whiskey sees his hands twitching like he’s willing to drop the gloves.  _ God please don’t _ , Whiskey thinks. He doesn’t like seeing Kent fighting, for obvious reasons, but he can put up with it. This isn’t the time to be fighting though, the momentum of the game is all wrong and it won’t do anything other than wear Kent out for the rest of the game. 

Kent skates away. Whiskey lets out a sigh of relief. Rachel puts her hand on his shoulder. Whiskey curses loudly when the predators score. His mom gives him a disapproving look but she doesn’t chastise him for swearing. His hand ends up in Rachel’s she squeezes in reassurance. 

Nobody talks to him for the rest of the game and if they do he doesn’t hear them. He’s on edge, watching intently. He feels his chest rising with every Aces scoring opportunity and plummeting every time the preds goalie keeps it out. 

He sees it all on Kent’s face, the desperation.  _ Just a goal, just one goal.  _ He sees the exhaustion too as Kent’s ice time goes up, his coach knowing that he’s the best chance of tying up the game. Kent misses on an open net, his shot hits the post and bounces away. That’s a shot Whiskey knows he’ll wake up thinking about as his shoulders sink and the camera pans to his frustrated face. He appreciates Rachel’s tight grip on his hand as the minutes wind down and the Aces still aren’t scoring. Whiskey counts the seconds until Kent comes back on the ice. His shifts get longer and the time between them gets shorter. The commentator says something about Kent being about to break his own record for time on ice as an Aces forward. The fact that he won’t be there when Kent falls asleep after this game is almost criminal. Four minutes left.  _ Pull the goalie,  _ Whiskey thinks. It takes 30 more seconds which in general isn’t that long, but in the last four minutes of a game, it’s an eternity. Kent leaps over the boards. Whiskey can see the look in Kent’s eyes that means they’re going to have to pull him off the ice. Whiskey watches them cycle the puck in the offensive zone. He thinks for a minute that they might actually do it. The extra attacker takes a shot, it rebounds, Kent scoops it up and shoots, and it hits the goalies helmet and bounces out of play. He sees Kent curse himself, Whiskey curses the goalie. Kent’s called off the ice. He gets all of 30 seconds rest before he’s jumping back over the boards. He throws one of the hardest hits Whiskey’s ever seen him throw to recover the puck in the neutral zone. He takes a desperate slapshot. The goalie rebounds it to one of his own players. Whiskey claps his hand over his mouth. The predator takes off up the ice, one of the Aces defenders gets tripped up and the pred is on a breakaway. Kent’s skating fast, desperately. He dives trying to get his stick in the way, but the pred taps the puck into the net. 

The preds bench erupts, Kent stays laying on the ice for a moment before shaking his head and getting up, back over to the bench. His head’s in his hands. Whiskey’s silent. 

“I’m sorry honey, that’s tough,” Rachel’s mom says. 

Whiskey nods. The game ends and Kent leaves the ice. There’s none of the fire, none of the righteous anger that Whiskey’s seen from Kent before. 

“Connor and I are gonna hang out in his room,” Rachel says, still holding on to Whiskey’s hand. 

“Do we need to tell you to keep the door open,” her mom teases. 

Rachel rolls her eyes, not even giving her a response. 

She closes the door behind them and wraps him into a tight hug. He’s not the one who lost, but he still feels like shit. 

“I’m sorry,” Rachel says as she pulls away. She sits on the edge of his bed.

“I hate not being there,” Whiskey mumbles, “Like there’s nothing I can do right now, he’s gonna be answering questions for hours and I  _ know  _ he’s gonna go home and google himself.”

“He has friends there, right?” Rachel asks. 

Kent nods, “A couple good ones.”

“You’ve just gotta trust that they’re there for him too.”

Whiskey nods, “I know they are,” he sighs, “I wish it was me. Like I know other people love him, but I love him so much. The way he just sat on the ice… it fucking hurt.”

Rachel pats the bed next to her, she puts her arm around Whiskey’s broad shoulders. 

“He’s gotta know how much you love him.”

Whiskey nods. 

“It just sucks.”

“Yeah,” she says. 

They lay down in his bed, both on their sides facing each other. 

“What about you?” he asks, “We talk about my love life often enough, what happened to that guy you were talking to.”

Rachel shrugs, “It’s gonna sound stupid, but we stopped talking because I liked school more than him.”

Whiskey snorts, “Sounds right.”

“Fuck you,” she rolls her eyes, “It’s like… I dunno. Like everyone has a  _ thing  _ and for a lot of people the thing is being in love and shit, but like seriously, I think my  _ thing  _ is medicine. And it’s not like I don’t have friends and stuff, it’s just I’d rather hang out with them and focus on school and work than try to date.”

Whiskey nods, “Makes sense “

His phone buzzes he picks up immediately. He knows it’s Kent before he even says hello. 

“Hi,” Whiskey says. 

Rachel gestures that she can go, Whiskey shakes his head. 

“Rachel’s here, is that okay.”

“Yeah,” Kent says, “Tell her I say hi.”

“I can put you on speaker and you can do it yourself,” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah okay.”

He taps the button. 

“Hi Kent!” Rachel says. 

“Hey,” Kent sounds tired, he has every right to be. 

“Where are you right now?” Whiskey asks. 

“Parking garage, I’m waiting for Swoops, he’s making me spend the night in his guest room.”

That’s a relief to Whiskey, the idea of Kent being alone sucks. 

“Are you okay?” Whiskey asks. 

“I’m tired,” Kent says, “Angry too. It was just one more goal.”

“It happens,” Whiskey says. 

“I know,” Kent doesn’t sound broken exactly, but there’s something inside of him that sounds done. 

“Are you okay?” Whiskey asks. 

“Yeah,” Kent says, “There’s just a lot to think about.”

“Don’t think too hard,” Whiskey teases. 

“I won’t,” Kent says, “Not until you get here anyway.”

He looks over and sees Rachel making gagging motions. 

“You two are so cute it’s gross,” she says loud enough that Kent can hear. 

Kent laughs, “Sorry,” he says entirely unapologetically. 

“I’ll let you go,” Whiskey says, “ _ Please  _ get some sleep.”

“I promise,” Kent says. 

“Love you,”Whiskey mutters, Rachel smirks. 

“Love you too,” Kent says instantly. 

They hang up. 

Rachel rolls over to look at him, “You’re gross.”

He sticks his tongue out like he did when they were kids. 

“He’s gonna be good, right?” she asks. 

“He’s uh,” Whiskey starts, “He’s taking it a lot better than he usually does, actually. I’ll text Swoops, his friend, the one he’s staying with to make sure, but he sounded good. Just tired, which, y’know, makes sense.”

“So what do hockey players even do when they’re not playing hockey.”

“Uhhhh,” Whiskey says. 

“Other than sex.”

“I wasn’t gonna say that.”

“The implication was there.”

“Fuck off. I taught him to play tennis last year, we work out together, uh, we watched a bunch of movies.”

“So you’re as lame as I thought, good to know.”

Whiskey rolls his eyes, “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I’m glad you’re lame, it means I don’t have to worry about you.”

“Should I be worrying about you?”

“Nope, I’m lame too,” she grins. 

They fall asleep there with a pillow in between them to delegate whose side of the bed is whose, also like when they were kids. 

He can’t wait to be lame in the presence of Kent again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a man can still yearn for his boyfriend of nearly three years, okay


	4. Touch my body, how's it feel?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whiskey can't take his eyes (or his hands) off of Kent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is Explicit. Like it is almost entirely sex, like I am blushing hitting post do not say you weren't warned but idk I think sex is 1) fun to write 2) important in a lot of long term relationships
> 
> title is from catching feels by ppcocaine because it feels appropriately uhhh,,, horny,,, for lack of a better term

It’s not quite the same as running through an airport to kiss Kent but the parking garage under Kent’s building is a close enough second. He pulls out his phone to text him. He’s thankful that he managed to convince his Dad he could handle the drive on his own because he doesn’t want to wait a second for a kiss. It’s been three days since the Aces lost to Nashville. 

Whiskey: Here :)

He puts his phone in his pocket and slides out of the drivers seat. He pulls his suitcase out of the backseat. He piles a couple boxes on top of each other and then he hears the elevator ding. 

“Kent,” his face breaks into a smile. He sees Kent look up and start beaming. 

And then they’re running. Whiskey’s sneakers hitting concrete, Kent’s flip flops doing the same. And then Kent has his arms around Whiskey’s neck and Whiskey’s wrapping his arms around Kent’s torso and holding him tight. And their momentum catches up with them and sends them spinning slightly while Whiskey brings their lips together. Kent’s hands come to rest on the sides of Whiskey’s face. And, as if this weren’t enough of a cliche, Whiskey hoists Kent up, just to hold him, just to keep spinning with him. Kent wraps his legs around Whiskey’s torso, he’s not light, but Whiskey can hold him up just fine. Kent plants kisses all over Whiskey’s face, on his forehead, both his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and then finally on his lips again. 

“God I missed you,” Whiskey says, he puts Kent down and Kent immediately buries his head in Whiskey’s shoulder again and he nods. 

“Can I help you take your stuff upstairs?” Kent asks. 

The backseat of his dad’s old car still has a suitcase and his hockey bag sitting on the seat. Whiskey grabs a duffel bag of clothes and his suitcase, Kent grabs a couple boxes, it’ll take a few trips to get all the way unpacked. 

Taking the elevator up to Kent’s floor just feels  _ good,  _ it feels so normal and so exciting at the same time. He gets to live with Kent. This is real life, this is his life. Kent pushes the front door open, turns to set the boxes down.

“We can grab the rest of your stuff and then grab dinner,” Kent says absentmindedly.

Whiskey drops his bags and kicks the door closed, he grabs Kent by the arm and pulls him flush to his chest. 

“Or we could… not do that?” Kent licks his lip, looks up at Whiskey. 

Whiskey tilts his head and presses his hungry lips to Kent’s, Kent gets breathless quickly. Whiskey puts his hand on the small of Kent’s back and pulls him even closer. 

“Are we…” Kent trails off. 

“I really want to get my hands on you, like, right now,” Whiskey whispers against Kent’s neck. He’s rewarded with a shudder and a wordless nod from Kent. 

It’s been way too long, they’re both hard from making out and the mere suggestion of taking it further. 

Kent moans into his mouth, Whiskey pulls Kent’s lip between his teeth and Kent’s hips are rolling against his. 

“Oh my god,” Kent groans into his mouth.

“Bed?” Whiskey asks. 

“Can you pick me up again?” Kent asks almost sheepishly. 

Whiskey revels in the fact that he’s strong enough to do that, he puts his arms around Kent’s waist and lifts him up. 

“Look at you,” Whiskey mutters against his neck. 

Kent blushes, Whiskey kisses the splotchy red patch on his neck, he thinks he wants to leave a mark there. It can wait until he has Kent in bed though. 

He kicks off his shoes because he realizes he hasn’t done that yet and he leaves them at the front door. 

“Fuck,” Kent groans, Whiskey feels his hips buck up against his stomach and he sighs happily. 

“You’re so strong,” Kent whispers against his ear as Whiskey walks down the hallway, Kent hanging off of him like a baby sloth or something. 

Whiskey pushes him up against the wall and kisses him deeply, his shoves his tongue into Kent’s mouth, dirty and wanting. 

“Please,” Kent whines. 

“Please what?” Whiskey asks, cheeky, he knows the answer.

“Whatever you want,” Kent says, “Fuck me,” Kent says. 

A low whine comes from the back of Whiskey’s throat and he nods. 

“You’re so strong,” Kent hums. 

Whiskey pushes the door open. He closes it, presses Kent against it, he uses the wall to help support Kent, holding part of his weight. He might be smaller but he still mostly muscle. 

“Do you want me to…” Whiskey asks, trails off. 

“Yes please,” Kent says. 

Kent likes to be manhandled, thrown around just a little bit. Whiskey strengthens his grip on Kent’s thighs. The whine that comes out of Kent’s mouth is reward enough, but god, now that the idea’s in his head, he really wants to get his dick inside of Kent. 

“I love you so much,” Whiskey says. 

He pivots and throws Kent down onto the bed. Kent looks up at him with hungry eyes. 

“Look at you,” Whiskey says. 

Kent blushes, he doesn’t say anything though, doesn’t say anything to Whiskey. 

Whiskey puts his hand underneath the fabric of Kent’s black t-shirt. Kent puts his hands above his head and lets Whiskey pull it off. Whiskey kneels above Kent, knees bracketing Kent’s legs, he rolls his hips against Kent’s, the both let out a warm hiss. Whiskey presses his lips to Kent’s chest. He’s out of breath, not because of the exertion or lifting Kent up, but he’s so incredibly turned on he can’t seem to take in enough air. 

“You’re so pretty,” Whiskey mutters against his skin. He thinks that he’d like to kiss every single freckle on his chest, up to his neck and across his nose. His hand holds Kent’s arm in place, thumb running over the edge of his sleeve, hand running over the Ace of spades tattoo. 

Kent’s grinning.

“I love it when you call me pretty, but can you please,” he trails off. 

Whiskey pulls his sweatpants off in one motion. In another motion,he reaches over to the nightstand. Finds the lube and a roll of condoms. He runs his hand over the fabric of Kent’s underwear. 

“Please,” Kent whines. 

“Are you begging?” Whiske cocks an eyebrow. 

“Do you want me to beg?”

“It certainly doesn't hurt,” 

“Then please, god, oh please, please, please fuck me with your wonderful magical dick.”

“Little too much, babe,” Whiskey smirks. 

He pulls down Kent’s underwear, gets a handful of Kent’s ass, Kent groans slightly. 

“You’re still very dressed.”

Whiskey looks down, nods in agreement. 

He pulls his polo over his head, it’s enough for now. Kent’s hands fan over Whiskey’s chest. He’s been working pretty hard on his physique over the summer, and having Kent’s hands on it makes him shudder. 

He clicks open the bottle of lube. Kent has an almost pavlovian response to it at this point. Whiskey’s ignoring Kent’s dick, almost on purpose, it’s hard and leaking and under most circumstances, it would already be in Whiskey’s mouth. But it’s been more than a month since they’ve had sex and Whiskey wants to fuck him and he doesn’t want this to be over too quickly.

He pours lube over his fingers and over Kent’s ass. He presses his index finger into Kent, rewarded with with a deep breathy sigh, he curves his finger, Kent squirms underneath of him. He takes his time before giving Kent a second finger. Kent’s hot and tight around his hands. 

“You look so pretty on my hand,” Whiskey mutters, filthy and he relishes in it. 

Kent sighs, “Oh my god, you’re so good, you’re so good, so so good,” Kent runs his mouth and it’s going straight to Whiskey’s dick. 

“I can’t believe how pretty you are,” Whiskey says. 

Kent’s got a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, his eyes look brown under the soft light of the bedroom, they’re screwed up, squeezed tight. His mouth hangs open and his mouth is just so pretty. Whiskey leans over to kiss them. He’s soft. Kent gasps into Whiskey’s mouth because Whiskey inserts a third finger and curls them. Kent twists underneath of him and Whiskey knows he’s hitting his prostate. 

“Baby please,” Kent’s not quite begging but the words are falling off his lips and really, who’s Whiskey to deny him now. 

He maneuvers awkwardly. Kent looks up and laughs at him as he tries to shrug his khakis off with one hand. 

“Are you good?” Whiskey asks. 

“Yes,” Kent says instantly, “Yes, you’re so good, you’re so good, wanna feel you,” Kent murmurs. 

“Okay.”

Kent whines when Whiskey removes his fingers. Whiskey feels bad for half a second but he needs both hands to roll on the condom. 

He pours more lube over the head of his dick and lines up with Kent’s hole. He grabs a handful of Kent’s ass, Kent’s hand rests on Whiskey’s bicep. Whiskey fully realizes that they’re having the kind of boring long term relationship sex that people talk about. But it’s fine, sex is sex and sex with Kent has never felt bad (except for that one time they tried letting Kent fuck Whiskey’s face and Whiskey had choked and Kent had nearly cried because he was afraid of hurting him, but that’s not right now). They have all the time in the world to try weird shit this summer. 

He pushes in slowly. A steady stream of curses falls from Kent’s mouth, Whiskey lets out a breath. Kent’s as hot and tight around his dick as he was for his fingers. Whiskey closes his eyes and pushes in until he’s buried in Kent’ ass. 

“You good?” Whiskey asks, he opens his eyes, he runs his hand over Kent’s cheek. Kent’s eyes are screwed shut, he nods. 

Whiskey moves a little, testing the waters. Kent lets out a whine, the satisfied kind. He adjusts, finding the right angle the way you only can when you’ve had a lot of sex with someone. Kent makes a noise from the back of his throat and he nods. 

“God you’re so good, you do me so good,” Kent says. 

Whiskey grunts in affirmation. He closes his eyes again, he caught sight of Kent, eyes screwed shut, dick hard and leaking over his stomach. He can’t look much longer if he wants to last even a little bit longer. 

He pulls Kent’s legs over his shoulders, hands gripping Kent’s hips, pulling him with every thrust. Kent yelps, shouts out, pleasure and pain mixing together. He’d be concerned if he hadn’t heard that noise before. He bends forward to kiss Kent on the shoulder, and then he bites and Kent yelps again, from the back of his throat. He leaves a mark like he knows Kent likes. 

“Harder,” Kent mutters, “Please, you’re so good.”

Whiskey bites his own lip hard as he quickens the pace. He feels sweat dripping down his own brow as he hammers his hips against Kent. The only noises in the room are Kent’s little whines, the occasional “fuck!” and the sound of skin hitting skin. 

“Do you need me to touch you?” Whiskey asks, he glances down at Kent’s neglected dick. 

Kent shakes his head, “I wanna…” He yelps out, Whiskey nails his prostate again. 

“You wanna come just on my dick?” Whiskey cocks an eyebrow. 

Kent nods again, “Yeah,” he says out of breath. 

“Oh fuck,” Whiskey says. He snaps his hips forward. 

Kent cries out with every thrust, perfectly timed, sometimes “fuck,” sometimes just a little “ungh,” 

“I’m close,” Kent says, “I swear I’m really close,” he says. 

Whiskey nods, he’s pretty sure his sweat is dripping over Kent’s chest but he doesn’t care anymore, literally all he wants is to make Kent come. 

“Just like that,” Kent’s hand holds on to Whiskey’s bicep, his feet are digging into Whiskey’s thighs. 

Whiskey snaps his hips forward and Kent cries out and he comes. 

“Keep going,” he manages to rasp out. 

So Whiskey fucks him through it and he looks down at him and Kent meets his eye and nods. He keeps going and Kent groans again. Whiskey lets himself go he looks down at Kent. His eyes still shut, mouth hanging open and Whiskey thumbs at the edge of his mouth, his thumb slips in Kents mouth and Kent licks the pad of his thumb. And god, they’re both sweaty and gross and basically gagging for it and then Whiskey comes with a sharp bitten off noise. He’s used to having to be quiet, he realizes that there’s no one to hear him but he still tries not to be a bother. 

Whiskey falls forward, panting. He doesn’t really care that he lands in the mess on Kent’s chest, they’re going to have to shower anyway. His chest heaves, he presses a kiss to Kent’s lips and Kent kisses back with even more verve, licking into Whiskey’s mouth like he’s saying thank you and also “god please do that again later.”

“Oh baby,” Kent says. 

“Oh baby,” Whiskey agrees. 

“I think,” Kent says, still out of breath, not entirely making sense, “I want your dick to be in me all the time.”

Whiskey laughs, “Unfortunately we have stuff to do.”

“Can we just stay here right now though?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey nods. 

He pulls out, Kent whines but falls back against the pillows anyway. Whiskey ties off the condom, drops it in the trash can Kent keeps next to Whiskey’s side of the bed. While he’s reaching over to the nightstand, he grabs a handful of tissues and hands them to Kent, then he lies down on his side of the bed. God it feels so good to have a side of the bed now.

He curls up against Kent’s side, tucking his head against the crook of Kent’s neck. He’s not normally the kind of guy who passes out after sex, but it’s been a long day of driving and it’s gotten dark out and Kent’s bed is so soft and warm and he always sleeps better when he’s next to Kent. He feels his eyes close and he feels himself drift off. He feels Kent drape a blanket over both of them. Kent’s not a sleepy person so it’s not a surprise when Kent gets up or when he hears the shower turn on. He thinks about joining him for a second but Kent’s bed is, to reiterate, really fucking comfy. 

He hears Kent’s phone buzzing while he’s in the shower, it takes him a second to realize that’s what it is but he rolls over to Kent’s side of the bed and checks to see who’s calling. He’s half a second too late because the phone stops ringing. He sighs. The phone screen lights up with a voicemail notification. _1 New Voicemail from John Fitzherbert,_ the name sounds familiar, Kent probably knows a lot of dudes named John. He’ll see it when he comes back into the bedroom. Then there’s a text from Fitzherbert, _we’ll talk it through,_ _call me back, it’s easier._ Whiskey doesn’t think much of it, just falls asleep on his side of the bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i have to get a little dr*nk to write s*x scenes, yes I just wrote the word dick like eight times and still censored the word s*x, mind ur business. 
> 
> plot to follow  
> comments are fun


	5. Pretend like there's no world outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week in the life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from Banana Pancakes by Jack Johnson because not every song on my playlist is a folksy artsy indie banger

Kent wakes him up with pancakes. Whiskey’s not entirely asleep, he’s been awake for a while but decided to stay in bed for a little bit longer. His eyes are closed, but he still hears Kent ease open the door and walk into the room. 

“Think fast,” he hears Kent say, and then he feels something warm and dense hit him in the face. 

“Jesus,” Whiskey bolts up, he looks down at his chest, “Is that a fucking pancake?” He picks it up. 

He can smell the peanut butter protein powder that Kent puts in pancakes, and yep, sure enough, his boyfriend just threw a pancake at his face. 

“I made breakfast,” Kent says. 

Whiskey’s still wiping sleep out of his eyes, he shakes his head with a smile on his face and takes a bite out of the pancake. 

“Pretty good,” he says, “But uh, why’d you throw it at me.”

Kent giggles he crawls up the end of the bed and sits in Whiskey’s lap, “You’re always up before me, so who knows when I’d have an opportunity to wake you up again,” he nuzzles against Whiskey’s neck. 

Whiskey shoves him away before quickly deciding to forgive him and kissing him on the side of the mouth. 

“What time is it anyway?” He asks. It had been a little after eight when he checked his phone last time he woke up. 

“Ten,” Kent answers. 

“Shit,” Whiskey mumbles. 

“I guess I really wore you out last night,” Kent says, flopping over so that his chin’s resting on Whiskey’s thigh. 

“Shut up,” Whiskey groans, hand patting the top of Kent’s head. 

“Breakfast?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey nods, he holds up the pancake, “Are you gonna throw the rest at me?”

“Is that a request?”

“Absolutely not,” Whiskey stretches his arms above his head. 

“Good,” Kent says, he kisses Whiskey on the cheek and springs up out of bed. Whiskey borrows a pair of Kent’s sweatpants and a t-shirt since most of his clothes haven’t been unpacked yet. He walks down the hallway. He hears Kent wandering around the kitchen. His eyes land on the kitchen table. When Kent said he made breakfast, Whiskey wasn’t expecting to see cut fruit and a vase of flowers on the middle of the table. The pancakes are piled on a serving plate and Kent set the table. He pours a glass of orange juice for himself and another for Whiskey.

“When did you get flowers?” Whiskey asks, it’s the first thing he thinks of. 

“Yesterday,” Kent replies softly, “Before you got home, I was gonna give them to you but uh… well y’know,” his cheeks flush pink. 

“They’re nice,” Whiskey reaches forward and flicks one of the petals with his index finger. 

Kent breaks into a smile. He’s always nervous about giving Whiskey things even though Whiskey always loves them. 

Kent sets the orange juice on the table and sits down next to Whiskey. He wants to hold Kent’s hand the entire time but they can’t do that and eat at the same time so he settles for pressing his knee against Kent’s thigh. 

“Is that your phone?” Whiskey asks, he hears the vibrating from the kitchen. 

“I’ll get it,” Kent jumps up. 

Whiskey puts another piece of pancake in his mouth, pops a strawberry in after, “The pancakes are really good by the way,” Whiskey shouts. He knows it’s the protein powder doing most of the heavy lifting, but it’s always worth praising Kent when he finally decides to learn how to cook something other than rice. 

Kent returns with his phone shoved into his back pocket. 

“Who was it?” Whiskey asks. 

“No one important,” Kent says and bends down to kiss the strawberry off of Whiskey’s lips. 

Kent doesn’t seem worried about it, so Whiskey figures he might as well not be either. 

They have a pseudo-honeymoon phase every summer. They can’t get enough of each other and spend every minute together, can’t keep their hands off of each other and ignore everything that’s not just the two of them. 

On Tuesday, they watch a movie in the living room that night. Kent’s lying against Whiskey’s stomach and Kit’s sandwiched in between them nuzzling against Whiskey’s chin. His phone starts buzzing on the coffee table, Kent reaches over and sends whoever it is to voicemail. Whiskey runs his hand over Kent’s cowlick and keeps watching the movie. He thinks maybe he’ll ask about the phone call tomorrow, maybe not, Kent doesn’t seem bothered. They fall asleep on the couch. 

They go grocery shopping on Wednesday. Kent gets his groceries delivered during the season but in the summer he’s left mostly to his own devices. Whiskey pushes the cart and Kent crosses stuff of the list. He hangs off the back of the cart and looks up at Whiskey. 

“Okay so for produce we need-” He mumbles to himself and Whiskey’s not really listening. Kent’s the one who cares about groceries and meal prep. Whiskey’s still on a college metabolism, he just eats whatever Kent has in the house. 

“Whiskey?” Kent asks. 

“Hmm?” Whiskey looks up. He’d been drifting off, still staring at Kent. 

“You like red leaf lettuce right?” Kent asks. 

“Oh yeah,” Whiskey says, “I mentioned that like once.”

Kent shrugs and puts a head of lettuce into a reusable produce bag. 

Kent keeps piling greens into the shopping cart. His hand brushes against Whiskey’s back and puts a bag of oranges in the cart. 

Kent’s phone rings in the meat aisle, he slides it to voicemail and then asks Whiskey if he wants steak for dinner. They get the good steaks, some chicken thighs and a few salmon fillets. 

On Wednesday night, Kent grills the steaks on the barbeque. He cooks more than they’ll eat tonight so they can have it for meal prep. Whiskey sits on the wicker deck furniture with his feet up. Whatever Kent’s doing with the asparagus smells really good. He’s thumbing through Kent’s playlist, picking songs that he likes to play through the bluetooth. He looks at Kent, the sun’s framing his curls, makes his hair look even lighter than it actually is. A few strands of hair are poking out of his snapback. A Las Vegas Aces hat (the women’s basketball team not the hockey team, Kent has season’s tickets). He’s wearing a white t-shirt and there’s a stain underneath his left shoulder from the steak marinade. He finally gets the spotify queue to cooperate with him. He closes the music app, notices a couple unread text notifications. Which is pretty strange for Kent, he’s pretty on top of his texts. The 2045 unread emails is more in character. 

“Head’s up,” he throws Kent’s phone back at him, Kent snatches it out of the air and puts it in his pocket.

“Mmm,” Whiskey groans, he’s tired from the heat, stretches out against the cushions, “when did you learn to cook good?” he yawns, “It smells good.”

“Dunno if barbecuing counts as cooking,” Kent shrugs, “Kelli’s been teaching me,” he adds, “She’s been trying for years but I think I finally figured it out.”

“You’re becoming the perfect housewife,” Whiskey teases. 

“Get fucked,” Kent rolls his eyes. 

Whiskey laughs. 

On Thursday, Kent feeds Kit and Whiskey ambushes him in the kitchen. He backs him up against the counter and puts his hands on either side of him, bracketing him in. He kisses Kent. Kent laughs. 

“What’s that for?” He smiles against Whiskey’s lips. 

“Nothing,” Whiskey says happily. 

Kent braces his arms against the counter and Whiskey’s hands hold them in place. Kent smirks. Whiskey goes in for another kiss, he licks into Kent’s mouth, his hand coming up to cup the back of Kent’s head, just underneath of his hat. He traces his thumb oer Kent’s jaw, moving across his chin to trace his lips. His phone buzzes on the counter next to him. 

“Just a text, I’ll get it later,” Kent says and he presses his lips to Whiskey’s again. 

Whiskey sinks down a little bit to kiss him back, his eyes slip closed and he tugs at Kent’s hair, just a little, twisting it around his fingers. 

His phone buzzes again. 

“Christ,” Kent groans, he reaches over and silences it. 

Whiskey glances over, catches the contact’s name before Kent buries his face in Whiskey’s neck again.  _ John Fitzherbert.  _

On Thursday night Kent ties Whiskey’s hands to the headboard and holds his legs in place with his elbows. Whiskey squeezes his eyes shut while Kent plants tiny kisses along his thighs. He’s naked and blushing and squirming at Kent’s touch. Kent is smirking, he nips at the skin, it’s so light and Whiskey’s squirming harder but Kent’s holding him in place and Whiskey trusts him. Kent bites down a little harder, not enough to draw blood, but enough that Whiskey yelps and his hips buck up, Kent holds him down. 

He hears something tinny and he’s not sure if his ear’s are ringing at first, but nope, it’s definitely Kent’s phone. 

“Fuck,” Kent groans and lifts his head. 

Whiskey whines because Kent’s face is no longer between his legs and that’s really where he’d like it to be at this very moment. 

“I thought I turned it off,” he says, “One second,” he jumps off the bed which leaves. 

Whiskey can’t exactly… get up, so he just lays there and watches as Kent digs through a pile of discarded clothes until he comes up with his phone. He sends the call to voicemail, turns it off and throws it on the dresser. Then he jumps back onto the bed. 

“Was that anything important?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent doesn’t answer. Whiskey strains against the restraints as he feels the press of Kent’s tongue on his inner thigh getting lower. He doesn’t think about the phone call for the rest of the night. 

On Friday, Whiskey wakes up sore. His wrists are stiff and there are bruises on his thighs. Kent always feels bad for leaving them, Whiskey honestly doesn’t mind. His wrist clicks when he rotates it. Kent’s asleep beside him. Whiskey takes a minute just to look. He’s naked from the waist up, fell asleep in a pair of basketball shorts. His collarbones stick out, he looks at the tattoos that line his chest, the ones on his arms, the way that they twist and deform slightly when Kent moves. There’s a hickey on his neck, courtesy of Whiskey, they can call it even for the bruises. Kent’s mouth hangs open, he doesn’t snore at night, not often, but he does in the morning. Whiskey watches the gentle rise and fall of Kent’s chest. His snoring really isn’t that bad, it’s mostly just breathing, it’s mostly soft. 

Whiskey’s half asleep, and maybe that’s why he’s so soft for Kent in the soft blue light of the bedroom, or maybe he’s just in love. Maybe Kent is just that nice to look at. Kent’s phone starts ringing and before he can even think about it, he’s silencing it and sending the call to voicemail. 

Kent just like,  _ doesn’t sleep,  _ during the season. Well he does, but not enough and not well. He sleeps just enough to keep himself functional, sometimes he has to pop a sleeping pill for a nap on a game day. Whiskey  _ knows  _ he sleeps better when there’s someone else in the bed with him. He knows he sleeps for longer and he knows he needs it. They’re not even a week removed from Vegas losing the Nashville series and Kent still hasn’t lost the bags under his eyes or the hollow look in his cheeks. As perfect as he looks, Whiskey can see the parts of his body where he’s lost weight. Whiskey really just wants him to sleep for as long as he can. 

It’s by accident that he sees the contact.  _ John Fitzherbert.  _ It’s the fourth time in 24 hours that Kent has gotten a phone call from whoever this guy is. Whiskey looks down at Kent’s phone in his hand. His lockscreen is a picture of Kit with a dish towel on her head. Whiskey unlocks the phone, his fingerprint is saved. He looks at the background, a picture of Kent, Swoops, Scraps, Kelli, andWhiskey at Swoops and Kelli’s pool party last year. Kelli was pregnant when they took the picture, grinning at the camera. Swoops’ arms wrap around her waist and he’s not looking at anything but her face, pure love. Swoops and Whiskey are the only ones looking at the camera because Kent is looking at Whiskey with the same love in his eyes even though Scraps is standing between them. 

And god, what is he even doing. He doesn’t need to read Kent’s texts, they don’t do that. If Kent needs to tell Whiskey something, he’ll usually do it. Or Whiskey will ask. They make a rule not to keep secrets. So Whiskey turns Kent’s phone off and sets it on the nightstand. He sits up against his pillow. Kent stirs slightly so Whiskey reaches over and lightly drags his hand over Kent’s forehead in the way Whiskey knows relaxes him. 

Kent relaxes and keeps snoring. Whiskey finds his phone. He reads the news in the morning, as lame as it sounds. It wakes him up to take in new information first thing in the morning, and he likes to know what’s going on in the world around him. He looks over at Kent again, he sighs. Who the fuck keeps calling him, what do they have to talk about. 

If it’s someone important, Whiskey thinks, Kent should tell him. But the name sounds so familiar and he’s not sure why. So Whiskey opens a new google search tab. This isn’t that nosey, he thinks, if it’s on google, it’s public knowledge. He types in  _ John Fitzherbert _ and the first thing to come up is a wikipedia page. So Whiskey clicks on it. There’s a picture of a man, probably mid-50s right. 

_ John Fitzherbert is an American businessman and entrepreneur specializing in finance and sports and entertainment. He is the chairman of Fitzherbert Investment Group and the majority owner of the Las Vegas Aces of the National Hockey League.  _

Oh shit. 

Whiskey looks over at Kent. He closes the tab as he tries to think of reasons why Kent’s owner would be calling him non-stop. He won’t wake him up though. There are very few things Whiskey would wake Kent up for. He wouldn’t even wake him up over a fire, provided it was small enough for Whiskey to put out himself. 

He gets up, gets dressed quietly and pours himself a bowl of cereal. Kent has a box of fruit loops but it’s in the junk food cupboard so Whiskey makes the boring choice and eats something that’s in between raisin bran and a bowl of nuts. John Fitzherbert, huh. Whiskey tries to remember if he’s ever heard Kent talk about ownership before and he honestly can’t remember a good or bad thing Kent’s ever said about the guy. 

Whiskey’s in his own head over it. Is Kent in trouble? Is he planning something? 

Whiskey googles Kent. He does that sometimes, convinces himself that Kent’s already doing it on his own so he should at least see what people are saying. 

He reads one article about how Kent is the heart and soul of Las Vegas and the only Ace who tried against Nashville. The next article is about how Kent’s a bum and overpaid and should get traded but he won’t because the Aces “computer boy GM” gave him too much money. Another is about how the author can’t wait for Kent’s contract to be over so the Aces can get out from under his “unacceptable cap hit.” 

Whiskey thinks the salary cap is dumb. Placing a limit on how much teams can spend only makes ravenous fan bases more ravenous. And Kent’s good, so good, but now he has to live up to the fact that he’s getting paid 10.2 million a season (which for the record doesn’t even make him the highest paid player in the western conference).

And then,because he’s stupid, Whiskey googles himself. He finds an article from the Swallow, which is actually quite sweet all things considered, an honouring of Samwell Men’s Hockey’s graduating class. There are more recent ones too. He finds a scouting report on himself, which is strange to read. He’s referred to as an “undrafted phenom.” He thinks that’s pretty sweet until he reads the next line which questions how good he can actually be if he backed out of the draft when he was 18. The next one he clicks on is “Potential NCAA hidden gems for Quebec City expansion,” there’s not much there. He smiles at the last one, it’s a game recap of the last game of Samwell’s season, a quote from Tango about how much he loves his team and his family and how much they owe to their hockey manager. 

Kent pads into the kitchen, he yawns, he’s still only wearing his pajamas. 

“Good sleep?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent nods. He pours himself a bowl of cereal and sits down next to Whiskey. 

Whiskey puts his hand on Kent’s arm and leans in for a kiss. Kent smiles softly. His hair is sticking out at soft angles and there’s a line on his face from the blankets. There’s also a scratch on his back but that’s from something else. Kit jumps onto one of the chairs and then onto the table.

“Kit no,” Kent mumbles. 

He makes no effort to get her off the table so Whiskey holds out his hand for her to headbut. He picks up one of his fibre flakes and holds it out to her. She turns her nose up at it. Whiskey gives her a look and gets up to fill her dry food bowl. She nuzzles against his leg while he scoops food into her bowl and refills the water. He bends down to scratch her head. 

He walks up behind Kent and wraps his arms around his shoulders, he kisses him on the cheek. 

“You got a phone call this morning,” Whiskey says, “I didn’t want to wake you up,” he’s trying o ease into the conversation. 

Kent nods. 

“I just sent it to voicemail if you want to call back later.”

Kent shakes his head. 

“You won’t call back?”

“Don’t need to.”

“I didn’t tell you who it was.”

“I already know.”

Whiskey clears his throat, “If something’s going on-” he starts. 

“It’s fine,” Kent interrupts. 

“Are you sure?” Whiskey asks, he sits down again tentatively. 

Kent sighs, “Yeah, I… I’m not gonna solve anything by answering the phone.”

“It’s your owner, right?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent nods, it’s not strange that Whiskey’s noticed the caller ID. 

“Like I said, nothing gets solved.”

“What does he want?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent looks stressed and really all Whiskey wants is for that to not be the case. 

He sighs again, running his hand through his bedhead. 

“He’s trying to convince me to stay in Vegas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i would like it to be known that "tyler seguin body issue" is now in my (a lesbian's) search history because i didn't know how to describe muscular collar bones. Also they're banging every day in addition to being domestic and sweet (and kinky that one time) jsyk.


	6. As long as we're together,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there's always a calm before the storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from home by gabrielle aplin

“This isn’t how I wanted to tell you,” Kent’s tugging at his own hair, frustration in his face. 

Whiskey’s phone hits the table with a thunk, he doesn’t mean to drop it but it slips out of his hand anyway. 

“Tell me what?” Whiskey asks, “What are you talking about.”

Because that can’t be what Kent just said. Kent is a part of Vegas at this point, it’s so him that Whiskey can’t imagine him living anywhere else. He got a tattoo for this city for christ’s sake. Whiskey never imagined him actually leaving, not re-signing. He still has another season left on his contract. 

“What’s going on?” Whiskey asks, his tone is harsh, he realizes too late, lost in his concern and confusion. 

Kent buries his head in his hands and lets out a deep breath. 

“Babe, talk to me,” Whiskey makes his voice soft, “Please,” he adds. 

“I asked for a trade,” Kent says. 

Whiskey nods, he puts his hand on the back of Kent’s neck, “What does that mean.”

Kent blows out a breath, he looks at Whiskey, “I told them I can’t play in Vegas next season, I just can’t do it.”

“Okay,” Whiskey says. 

“It’s… I just need a new start and maybe it’s too late for that and maybe this is just running away but I can’t take another season of this.”

“Season of what?” Whiskey asks. 

“Mediocrity,” Kent answers. 

“Baby you’re not-” Whiskey starts. 

Kent cuts him off, “The window closed,” he says, “Breaker retired so we have goalie problems, they traded our best d-man for a first round pick, guys are getting old, they’re dumping cap hits and saving money, it’s obvious they’re looking to rebuild next season and I just don’t know if I can take that and I know it’s selfish and I know I should stick around and finish what I started and be here for the next rookie to show up in Vegas but I just  _ can’t, _ ” Kent’s words spill out of him, he’s still looking down. He finally looks up, his eyes are glassy when they meet Whiskey’s, “Swoops is getting traded,” he says, and he sounds so broken and Whiskey hates himself for not asking about it sooner. 

How long has he been pretending this was fine? Since Nashville? Before?

“Swoops?” Whiskey asks and he can’t believe that would happen. 

Kent nods, “At the draft, I guess they told him because he’s been here for so long. It’s just… it’s over here.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Whiskey says, voice going a little hoarse. 

Kent shakes his head. 

“We’ll… I don’t know,” he says, “It is.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Whiskey asks. 

“I didn’t know how,” Kent whispers, “Because we said I’d wait the year while you figured out the league and I’d stay here and then we’d talk about trades once my contract was over and…” Kent swallows a lump in his throat, Whiskey stands up and finds a water bottle, he hands it to Kent, Kent takes a gulp and keeps talking, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” Whiskey says, “I don’t need,” he stutters, “This isn’t about me.”

Kent presses his hands to his face and groans. 

Whiskey puts his hand on Kent’s arm but that doesn’t feel like enough, so he gets out of his chair and he kneels next to Kent’s and he wraps his arms around Kent’s legs and presses his head to Kent’s side. He just holds on, Kent’s hand cups his neck. 

“I’m going to make coffee,” Whiskey says “and then we’re going to drink it on the balcony, and we’ll talk about this, okay?”

Kent sniffles slightly but nods, he’s not crying but it’s a near thing. Whiskey stands up but Kent’s still holding on to his arm. 

“Come sit in the kitchen then,” Whiskey says. 

Kent’s gone silent, something he does rarely while he’s trying to find words. Usually he forces himself to say something in these moments, to pretend to be okay. Whiskey takes a whole lot of comfort in the fact that Kent doesn’t need to hide the fact that he’s not entirely okay. Kent sits on the counter, his head resting on Whiskey’s shoulder while Whiskey messes around with Kent’s nespresso machine. He switches Kent’s coffee for decaf without Kent really noticing. He hopes it helps his hands get less shaky. 

He hands Kent his mug, realizes too late that it has the Aces logo on it. Kent doesn’t say anything. 

The sun’s not quite up and it’s cool on the balcony. Kent sits with his feet crossed underneath of him facing Whiskey. 

He sighs, “I don’t know what to say,” Kent admits. 

“Tell me what your plan is?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent scrunches up his nose, “I was waiting to figure out what yours was. I don’t need to tell them where I want to go right away, I wanted to wait and see where you signed and pick somewhere close.”

“Kent,” Whiskey sighs, “You know there’s no guarantee that if I sign somewhere I’m gonna stay there. I don’t have what you have yet. I don’t have a no move clause.”

“I was just going to waive it,” Kent says, “The no move clause, I already told them I waived it, my agent figured it out, but I can… I dunno. I don’t know what I’m thinking I just know I can’t be here for another season.”

He sounds adamant so Whiskey won’t question him, he just nods. 

“So why’s the owner calling you?”

Kent rolls his eyes, “I told my GM about the plan, that I won’t play next season here and I guess ownership found out and he wants to convince me personally to stay and he keeps sayin’ it’s not about the money and that they want me to be their captain but I don’t buy it, fact of the matter is they’ll lose money if I go because if I go they’re gonna suck for a while but I feel like I  _ have  _ to go.”

“Okay,” he says simply. 

“Okay?” Kent asks, “You’re not mad?”

Whiskey shrugs, “There’s no point getting mad at you over this. If you want out you want out, this is gonna be fine.”

It’s going to be complicated and a pain in the ass like everything else in their lives, but that’s not what Kent needs to hear. Kent brings his mug to his lips. 

“Is this decaf?” he screws up his eyes. 

Whiskey nods, “Caffeine makes you shaky when you’re upset.”

“Thanks,” Kent mumbles, “I didn’t actually know that, but it makes sense.”

“Do you know that you need a hug?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent laughs and he nods, he sets the coffee mug down on the patio table and crawls across the couch and nuzzles up against Whiskey’s chest. Whiskey smooths his hand over Kent’s back, he puts his chin on top of Kent’s head and kisses the top of his hair. 

“Am I running away?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey frowns, “No,” he says, “No it’s not, you’re not doing that.”

Kent buries his face further in Whiskey’s chest. 

“How long has this been a thing?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent groans, “End of Nashville,” he mumbles. 

Whiskey pets the top of Kent’s hair. 

“I’m sorry,” Kent says. 

“Stop,” Whiskey says gently. 

Kent takes a deep breath, “I didn’t… I still don’t. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m avoiding Herbie because he’s going to ask me what I want and I don’t know yet,” Kent says. 

“Sorry,” Whiskey says, “Herbie? Your  _ owner  _ has a hockey nickname,” Whiskey gently teases. 

It pulls a soft laugh out of Kent and thank god for that. He nods. 

“I just wanted to spend time with you. The draft is next month, I was going to talk to you before then.”

“You don’t have to… you’re not accountable to me or anything.”

“No, I want to be,” Kent says, “I want you to know.”

Whiskey kisses the top of his head again. He nods. 

“You’ll look weird in a different jersey,” Whiskey says. 

Kent nods. 

“I love you,” Whiskey says, “A lot, no matter where you play, okay?”

“I want to be close to you,” Kent says. 

“I know,” Whiskey says, “You know that there’s no guarantee.”

Kent nods. 

“And we made it work long distance this long, and no matter what we have the summers,” Whiskey cuts himself off, “That doesn’t matter right now, how do you feel?”

“Weird,” Kent admits, “I’ve been here so long.”

Whiskey nods. 

“Ten years,” Kent says, “Since I was 18.”

“I remember watching you get drafted.”

“Please don’t remind me that you were like 12.”

“13,” Whiskey corrects him.

“Yeah that makes it better,” Whiskey feels Kent roll his eyes, “It was uh, quite a day,” Kent says. 

Whiskey squeezes him just a little harder. 

“All those years and I’m just gonna leave?” Kent bites down on his lip, “Like, I worked for this team and they built this team after I got here and I figured my shit out and I  _ met you _ while I was on this team. How can I just leave?”

“It’s a business,” Whiskey says, “You know that the second your production drops or you get too hurt, they’d ship you off. Why should you be held to a different standard?”

Kent’s quiet. He rolls over so that their chests are pressed together and he’s looking at Whiskey’s face. 

“You’re really smart, you know that right?”

Whiskey kisses his forehead. 

“If you don’t want to be here you don’t have to be. You gave this city two cups. Who’s gonna blame you for leaving?”

“Everyone probably.”

“Yeah you’re right,” Whiskey says, hockey people suck, “But they’ll all be wrong, and whatever team you end up on is going to fall in love with you.”

Whiskey showers Kent in praise because it takes some convincing to get Kent to really internalize what he’s saying. 

“I really really love you,” Whiskey says, petting the top of Kent’s head. 

“I love you too,” Kent says. 

“I just want you to be happy, if playing somewhere else makes you happy then we’ll figure it out,” Whiskey’s head is still spinning, just a little bit. This is big, this is something huge and stressful and maybe even a little bit ill-advised. But Kent seems so sure, and he seems so relieved when he talks about starting over somewhere else, so Whiskey knows they have to do it, make this happen. 

“Can we just forget about it for now?” Kent asks, “There’s nothing we can do about it.”

So they’re at the mercy of the NHL, of business and money and whether or not Whiskey’s agent can find a deal. It’s terrifying. 

But Whiskey loves it when Kent talks about plans in terms of “we” and he loves the idea of this next month belonging to them. Until the draft. Whiskey sighs and Kent looks up, Whiskey shakes his head, nothing’s wrong.

“Have you talked to your agent?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey shrugs, “It’s like you said, what can we do until the draft.”

“Man,” Kent sighs, “Fuck the draft.”

“Yep,” Whiskey agrees. 

They go to the gym in the morning and they make eggs and avocado toast for breakfast and everyday after that they do an approximation of the same thing. Kelli and Swoops come over for dinner at least once a week, sometimes Kent and Whiskey go to their place. 

It’s a few days after their talk about leaving Vegas that Whiskey meets the baby for the first time. Kelli hands him off to Whiskey. Whiskey holds him against his chest, rocks him gently. Babies are easy, fragile, and small, but easy. 

“Hi there,” Whiskey’s bad at baby talk, his voice just gets softer but he doesn’t know how to do that cooing thing that other people do, “What’s his name?” Whiskey asks. 

“Benjamin,” Kelli answers, “After his grandfather,” she points her attention at the baby. 

Kent vehemently refuses to hold him. 

“I won’t be responsible for his skull until it’s fully formed,” Kent says. 

Swoops laughs and Kelli laughs harder. 

“We started calling him Benji,” Swoops sits next to Whiskey and the baby on the couch. 

“I like it,” Whiskey says, voice soft. 

Kent’s still standing, looking at Whiskey with his arms crossed over his chest. Benji grabs on to Whiskey’s shirt, his tiny chubby hands balled up around the fabric. Whiskey pats him on the back and Benji yawns. Kelli and Swoops are mostly unaffected by the fact that their baby is intensely adorable, but Whiskey keeps getting punched in the face by it. 

Kelli walks past Whiskey, ruffles his hair as she picks up her purse. She rifles around in one of the pockets. She pulls out a joint, already rolled and holds it out to Kent. Kent smirks. He doesn’t smoke a lot, or really ever during the season but Whiskey knows that Kelli makes good edibles. 

“In celebration of the fact that I am no longer breastfeeding,” Kelli says. 

Kent rolls his eyes, “Too much information.”

“It’s natural Kenneth,” she chides, “I’ll tell you all about how much he made my nipples chafe if you want,” she elbows him. 

“Nope!” Kent pops the P. 

“You guys are good with the baby, right?” Kelli asks. 

“‘Course,” Whiskey says. 

Kent and Kelli step out onto the patio. Whiskey watches Kent lean over the railing as they talk. Swoops turns to him. 

Whiskey hasn’t really hung out with Swoops one on one all that often he’s not sure what to say so he defaults to the thing they have in common. Kent. 

“Has Kent always been afraid of babies?” Whiskey asks. 

“Deathly,” Swoops answers. 

Whiskey laughs. Benji stirs slightly but doesn’t move much. 

“Kent told me you’re getting traded?” Whiskey asks. 

Swoops goes quiet, he nods, “Yeah, wish they would have told me before we decided to have a kid here.”

Whiskey frowns at Benji, “Must suck.”

Swoops shrugs, “At least he’s not in school yet, he’ll never know.”

They pause when Benji grabs for Whiskey’s hand, Whiskey lets him hold it. 

“I guess that means he told you?” Swoops says. 

Whiskey nods. They hear Kent and Kelli laughing out on the balcony. 

“Do you think he’s really thought this through?” Whiskey asks. He wouldn’t dare ask Kent that, not right now, but his best friend? Maybe Swoops knows something Whiskey doesn’t.

“Say what you want about Parse, but every decision he’s ever made about his career has been calculated as hell. Since the draft, every interview, every endorsement. I know he acts chill but he really thinks hockey shit through, everything actually. Most things.”

“Most things?”

“You,” Swoops says. 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he literally told me he was thinking about retiring early so he could follow you.”

Whiskey looks out the glass door. Kent’s throwing his head back laughing at something Kelli said. 

“He wouldn’t,” Whiskey says. 

“I would’ve said the same thing if it was anyone else but you.”

Whiskey looks down at Benji, he looks up at Kent. 

“Yeah that’s not happening,” Whiskey says. 

“Hey,” Swoops elbows Whiskey in the arm, “Thanks for taking care of Parse.”

Whiskey shakes his head, “We take care of each other.”

“I get that,” Swoops says. 

Kent and Kelli come back inside. Kelli feeds Benji and then puts him back in his carseat to take a nap. They sit in the living room with takeout, Kent nestles into Whiskey’s shoulder. Whiskey holds his hand and they listen to Kelli and Swoops complain about being new parents. Kent agrees to hold Benji but only sitting on the floor and only with Whiskey directly beside him. Kent gets sleepy, Whiskey’s not sure if it’s the weed or the heat but he tucks Kent against his own body. It’s peaceful in a way that makes Whiskey want to sit in the living room, in this feeling forever. The warm weight of Kent against his body, Kelli’s lilting laughter and Swoops’ sarcastic comments that go along with the movie’s dialogue. Benji cries and Kelli picks him up to soothe him. She’s sitting next to Whiskey and the baby reaches out for him. He holds his finger out and Benji grabs on to it. Kent turns over and sticks his tongue out at Benji, looks up at Whiskey. Whiskey wants this feeling to last forever.

It doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not writing kent's POV but imagine him, a little stoned, walking in the living room, seeing Whiskey holding a baby and going "!!!" and then panicking about what that means and promptly passing out


	7. Runaway American dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's the day of the nhl entry draft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from born to run

Kent never liked roller blading, not when he’s always had easy access to ice. The winters in the mountains rarely left him without a place to skate and by the time he started playing in the Q, he could have whatever ice time he wanted. Whiskey loves roller blading though, so Kent dusts his pair off in the summer. 

It makes more sense, of course, for Whiskey to like roller blading. He hadn’t skated on a frozen pond until he was 21. 

They’re roller blading the morning of the NHL entry draft. Kent has his ringer off, Whiskey has his on. It was Kent who suggested they go roller blading early this morning. Whiskey’s knee wouldn’t stop bouncing. They walk to a park near Kent’s condo. There aren’t many parks in Vegas, green space isn’t exactly their main concern, but Kent found one when he first moved here. He tries not to think about how he’s going to have to find a new park wherever he ends up. Swoops is getting traded today, so the Aces can move up in the draft. It hurts his brain too much if he starts thinking about cap space, how at the end of the day they management in Vegas treats them like numbers and statistics, how he can’t really blame them for that. 

He hopes for Jeff’s sake, for Kelli’s sake, for Benji’s sake, that they end up somewhere good. Somewhere that you can raise a kid, have another one if you feel like it. He hopes they end up somewhere in Canada so that Swoops’ mom can come visit without having to cross a border, somewhere green, maybe Vancouver, Benji would like it there. Or maybe Toronto, Swoops is an Ontario guy, he’d play for his hometown team in a heartbeat, they’d love him there and they’d love Kelli even more. They probably have a good music scene, she could start writing for them again. 

G He looks at Whiskey as they walk into the park, he sits down and starts tying his rollerblades, shoving his shoes into his drawstring backpack, holding it out for Kent to do the same. He’s been quiet this morning, Kent knows why. Whatever happens today affects him for the rest of his life. Kent hopes Whiskey ends up somewhere good. Kent doesn’t know what good means for Whiskey, all he knows is that good for him means being in the same place. Everything hangs in the air in this very moment, and there’s nothing they can do about it. They do lazy laps of the park, not saying much. Kent points out a red squirrel and Whiskey takes out his phone to send a picture to his friends. 

Kent thinks maybe he should hold Whiskey’s hand, but he reconsiders. They sit down on a bench beside a planter box. Whiskey takes a deep breath and looks up at the sky. There’s not a cloud in sight, Kent wonders if that’s a good sign. 

“Thanks,” Whiskey says.

Kent shrugs, his shoulder brushes against Whiskey’s. 

“My agent texted before we left,” Whiskey says. 

“What’d he say?” Kent bites down on his lip. 

“He said I’m going to Detroit. It’s not official yet, they’ll announce it after they announce their draft picks.”

“Wow,” Kent says, his mouth hangs open.

Whiskey nods.

“How do you feel?” Kent asks, he puts his hand on the top of Whiskey’s thigh. 

Whiskey’s still looking up at the sky, “I dunno,” he says, “It doesn’t feel real, I guess it isn’t real yet, not until I sign something.”

“It didn’t feel real for me until the first game, even after that,” Kent says. 

Kent’s already thinking about what he’s going to tell his agent when he’s inevitably asked why he wants to go to Detroit. 

“We’re gonna do great in Detroit.”

Whiskey’s spent the past month shutting down Kent’s fantasy about playing together, how they can’t get their hopes up. “Baby I could get traded or sent down at any moment, maybe we should wait,” has become his new favourite phrase. But today, today he just nods, he indulges the fantasy.

Kent reaches over, squeezes Whiskey’s hand and then stands up. 

They watch the draft. Though the word  _ watch  _ is meant in the loosest sense of the word since they’re both on their phones. Whiskey’s breath hitches every time the Red Wings get mentioned. 

“Fuck,” Whiskey shoots up from the couch. 

“What?” Kent asks. 

“Can I use your office?” Whiskey asks. 

“You mean the guest bedroom where I keep the printer?”

“Yeah that one,” Whiskey says. 

Kent nods, Whiskey puts his phone to his ear. 

“Hi, yeah, I can talk, I’m about to be right in front of a computer, I can look at it.”

Kent recognizes the specific kind of tension that comes from talking to his agent. 

He stays on the couch while Whiskey disappears into the hallway. 

He looks up at the couch. He rolls his eyes as Gary Bettman is showered in boos when he takes the stage. 

“We have a trade to announce,” Bettman says. 

Kent sits up a little straighter. 

“The Las Vegas Aces have acquired the eighth overall pick from the Ottawa Senators in exchange for Jeffrey Troy and two second round picks.”

“Shit,” Kent mutters to himself. He doesn’t actually have any strong opinions about Ottawa or the Senators. 

He texts Swoops, certain that his phone has to be blowing up right now. 

_Kent:_ _can’t believe im losing u to canada_

Kent feels almost smug that Swoops decides to answer him so quickly. 

_Swoopsy:_ _canada had me first_

 _Kent:_ _so,_

 _Kent:_ _how are we feeling?_

 _Swoopsy:_ _it’s fine_

 _Swoopsy:_ _close to family, if I don’t like it i’m a ufa next year_

 _Kent:_ _you gonna go to florida after_

 _Swoopsy:_ _maybe, tampa seems pretty sick_

 _Swoopsy:_ _we’ve gotta settle though_

 _Kent:_ _Ottawa’s gonna be the forever home?_

 _Swoopsy:_ _could be_

 _Swoopsy:_ _how’s the bf_

 _Kent:_ _about to be a Red Wing_

 _Swoopsy:_ _shit really?_

 _Kent:_ _nothing official yet but yeah_

 _Swoopsy:_ _give him my congrats_

 _Kent:_ _gonna call my agent later, see what it takes to get to detroit_

 _Swoopsy:_ _parser, i say this with like, all the love in the world, but i hope u don’t get ur hopes up too high if it doesn’t work out_

 _Kent:_ _i know. I’ll be fine. It’ll be okay. Even if it doesn’t work_

 _Swoopsy:_ _good luck, we’re pulling for you._

Kent wanders down the hallway, rests his head against the doorframe. Whiskey’s scanning something that looks like a contract. So he’s already signed it. Whiskey lets out a deep breath when he notices Kent. 

“Less glamorous than I imagined,” he says.

“Lemme take a picture of you,” Kent says, “Pose like you’re signing it. Your social media team will love you if they don’t have to ask for this,” Kent says. 

So Whiskey poses with a pen in his hand and a smile on his face and Kent takes the picture. Kent knows that the Red Wings are one of the teams Whiskey had talked to, he’d chatted with their GM but no one had made any promises. When it came to contract decisions, everything went through his agent, and Whiskey let him handle everything. 

“Once I hit send on this email I’ll be a Detroit Red Wings prospect,” Whiskey says. 

Kent stands behind the desk chair, he wraps his arm around him and kisses his head. Whiskey hits send and Kent pulls him to his feet, he kisses him, pulling him close. 

“You did it,” Kent says. 

Whiskey just nods, “I have to call my mom.”

“Of course,” Kent says. 

He sees the picture of Whiskey sitting in his guest room/office on twitter later that night from the official Red Wings account. Whiskey spends the rest of the day answering texts and calling his friends. He hears Foxtrot shrieking in delight through facetime. 

Kent decides to call his own agent while he’s cooking. It’s an easy request.  _ “I would like to go to Detroit please, and if I can’t go to Detroit then I need to be in the same division as Detroit, please don’t ask why.” _

He hits his agent’s contact, hits the call button. 

“Kent!” His agent’s voice pleasantly surprised, “I was just about to call you, you’re my last matter of business for the day.”

“Oh?” Kent asks, he’s stirring pasta while he talks. 

“You’ve already hear from Fitzherbert, I assume,” his agent says. 

“Oh, no, I must have missed the call,” Kent says, embarrassed to admit he blocked his owner's number. 

“Oh,” his agent says, “You should call him first and then call me back.”

Kent gets a bad feeling in his stomach. He needs to go to Detroit. He adds some oregano to the sauce and dials the number. 

“Parson,” Fitzherbert answers the phone. 

“Hello sir.”

The relationship has never been chummy, but there’s an iciness to it that wasn’t there before. 

“I’m not going to sugarcoat it Parson, you're not an Ace anymore.”

“Sir?”

“The Quebec Nordiques,” Fitzherbert says, “You’ve been taken in the expansion draft, they’ll announce it tomorrow.” 

Kent drops the spoon he’s holding, it hits the floor with a clatter.

“I didn’t know I was…”

“Eligible? Well, you waived your no-move and we decided that since you were intent on moving on, that we wouldn’t protect your contract. Consider it a compliment, they couldn’t believe you were eligible, wanted you immediately.”

Kent doesn’t know what to say. 

“It really has been a pleasure working with you son, I hope this is the fresh start you need,” Fitzherbert’s voice softens, “I’m sorry it had to end this way, or at all. But if we both want to move on, then this was the best choice for the sake of the team.”

“I understand,” Kent says, trying not to get choked up. 

Detroit feels so far away. 

“I wish you the best, son.”

“Thank you sir.”

Kent hangs up first. His knees are weak but he won’t fall. He clutches the counter, hockey doesn’t get to bring him to his knees anymore. He grits his teeth and spoons the tomato sauce over the pasta and sets two bowls down on the table. 

“Dinner,” Kent shouts. 

He feels like he’s on autopilot. 

Whiskey comes into the kitchen with a grin on his face. Something amazing has just happened to him, he can’t be blamed for not noticing the shake in his boyfriend’s hands. Kent’s good at pretending things are fine. He doesn’t know how to say they’re not. 

“It looks amazing, you’re such a good cook, like you’ve gotten so much better,” Whiskey gushes and he kisses Kent on the cheek. Kent forgets to lean into it.

Kent wants to cook dinner for them every night. He thought he’d get to. He really really did. He thinks about coming home from the rink together and picking him up and dropping him off from things and falling asleep next to each other  _ every single night.  _ He thought about the snow, and buying a little house where he’d have to shovel the driveway. And he thought about getting another cat and a dog to keep the company. He thought about scoring a goal and looking over to see Whiskey grinning back at him. 

He looks up at Whiskey. Whiskey’s grinning back at him. Kent cries. 

Whiskey slides out of his chair immediately, the grin falls and he wraps his arms around Kent. 

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent’s breathing heavy, trying to stop crying, because Whiskey doesn’t need to see him cry on one of the best days of his career. 

Kent shakes his head. 

“I said I needed a fresh start and they gave it to me,” he shakes his head bitterly. 

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t plan for the stupid fucking expansion draft… I should’ve,” Kent sniffs. 

“What’s happening?” Whiskey asks slowly, he has both hands on the side of Kent’s face. He has no options. It’s either go to Quebec or don’t play hockey until his contract expires. 

“The Nordiques. I’m going to the Nordiques.”

“Kent,” Whiskey says and he holds Kent even tighter, his voice cracks but it doesn’t break. Maybe he was smarter not to hope so hard, “I’m so sorry,” Whiskey says. 

They’ve both slid off their chairs and onto the floor. Kent has his hand buried in Whiskey’s shoulder and there are still tears. Whiskey has his hand fisted in Kent’s t-shirt. 

“We’ll figure this out,” Whiskey says. 

Kent nods. He needs to believe that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh angst time. i appreciate comments and feedback (unless you're telling me why the contract/expansion stuff is inaccurate, i've learned so many things about hockey in my life, the one thing i refuse to learn is NHL contract law)


	8. Please hurry leave me I can't breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two boys pretend to have their shit together for the sake of the other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from first love/late spring by mitski

Whiskey has to leave first. There’s prospect camp and then if he’s lucky, training camp. He’s been on the phone with his agent at least every other day. Kent seems okay, he’s not great but he seems okay. He has things to do, which is good, it keeps him from sinking too far back into his own head. Whiskey doesn’t know what to say to make this better. 

Kent’s sitting at the dining room table, he has his legs crossed underneath of him on the chair. Whiskey recognized the rhythmic tapping. Whiskey walks through the dining room to the kitchen. He opens the fridge. He puts the tupperware of fried rice that Kent had made for dinner last night in the microwave, holds the fork in his mouth while he waits for it to heat up. He looks down, Kit is nudging at his leg with her head. He crouches down, pats her on the head. She leans into his touch and purrs, then she lets out a noise that sounds like a little whine. 

“I’ll miss you too,” he whispers at her. He doesn’t know how much she understands that he’s going tomorrow. 

He’s kneeling in front of her and she climbs into his lap. He fully sits down on the tile floor, letting Kit nuzzle against his chest. He hugs her, scratches in between her ears. He’s so grateful for whatever opportunity he’s about to get in Detroit, but god, he wishes he could stay. 

Well, that’s not entirely true. He loves Kent and he loves Kent’s cat and he loves this condo and the bed he gets to wake up in. But he loves hockey. He loves hockey so much and he’s spent damn near his entire life working to get here, working to get a contract. And now he does, a two way deal that leaves him just teetering on the edge of the his NHL dream. If this goes well, he’ll play an NHL game, if it goes less well he’ll end up in the minors, somewhere in Michigan. He can’t give up that opportunity, not for anything. And Kent would kill him if he did. 

Whiskey realizes that his food is ready but he can’t bring himself to shoo Kit away. He picks her up instead. Kent’s always grumbling about how Kit never lets him pick her up like that. He takes the tupperware out of the microwave and heads back to the dining room. He sets the dish on the table and sets Kit on the chair next to him. He throws her a piece of the salmon from his fried rice. 

“You spoil her,” Kent says. 

“Someone’s got to,” Whiskey shrugs, “I’m the fun dad.”

Kent rolls his eyes, turns his attention back to his phone. 

“This is why she loves you more, you do realize that?” Kent asks, “Just making sure.”

“I mean yeah, that’s why I do it.” Whiskey shoves another bite of rice down.

Kent’s cooking has gotten a lot better since they’ve gotten together so Whiskey knows the reason everything he puts in his mouth tastes like paste has more to do with him than it does his boyfriend’s spice cupboard. 

They haven’t talked about it yet. It’s been weeks of empty silences, skirting around the topic. Both of them preparing, neither of them saying anything, neither of them sure what to say. But the time is running out for either of them to say what they feel. Whiskey wishes he could say how he feels but he really doesn’t know what he’s feeling, he doesn’t have the words for it. And Kent seems okay. Whiskey doesn’t know if he can rock the boat, doesn’t know if he should. 

So he finishes his dinner and he washes the dishes and then he sits in the living room on Kent’s strangely comfortable leather couch. Kit curls up next to him. She headbutts his thigh until he finally gives in and scratches her behind the ears. He manages to keep texting one handed. 

**Tango:** **so when is it officially no longer rude to ask how much money you’re making?**

 **Whiskey:** **lol**

 **Foxtrot:** **don’t b rude**

 **Foxtrot:** **but yeah, how much.**

 **Whiskey:** **700**

 **Tango:** **thousand?**

 **Whiskey:** **no dollars**

 **Foxtrot:** **fuck off**

 **Whiskey:** **next night out’s on me**

 **Whiskey:** **i honestly don’t know what i’m doing**

 **Foxtrot:** **none of us do, man**

 **Tango:** **@Whiskey, did you just sigh, that feels like something you’d sigh over**

Whiskey does sigh, but then he laughs. 

**Whiskey:** **yeah.**

 **Whiskey:** **i don’t know**

 **Whiskey:** **everything’s happening fast and it feels out of my control**

 **Whiskey:** **like i made the plan but now it’s happening it feels like i skipped a step**

 **Foxtrot:** **not to be overly simplistic but**

 **Foxtrot:** **mood**

 **Foxtrot:** **grad school is weird**

 **Tango:** **summer camp is weirder, i guarantee it**

 **Tango:** **we had to take a kid to the ER to take a flashlight out of his nose**

 **Foxtrot:** **sorry**

 **Foxtrot:** **his NOSE???**

Whisket chuckles again. Sometimes he can still hear his friend’s voices just based on their texts. It’s weird but comforting. 

**Whiskey:** **storytime?**

Whiskey reads as Tango launches into the story, all the kids get pocket flashlights at the beginning of camp and a kid who discovered that when you hold your flashlight up to your skin it glows. The kid wanted to see if he could make his brain glow, so naturally, up the nose. Tango and the other counsellors only found out because one of the other kids snitched, got to them just before they were about to tie the end of the flashlight to a screen door and slam it. 

**Foxtrot:** **that’s insanity**

 **Tango:** **wasn’t that bad, just had to hold his hand while they yanked it out.**

 **Whiskey:** **lol**

 **Foxtrot:** **so like not to stress you out or anything, but what’s the plan for tomorrow, maybe i can meet you at the airport**

 **Whiskey:** **are you in michigan? Why are you in michigan**

 **Foxtrot:** **i’m doing a tech job in Ann Arbor for the month**

 **Foxtrot:** **so maybe we can hang out :)**

 **Tango:** **lucky, all i have planned for this month is keeping flashlights out of noses**

 **Foxtrot:** **your fault for liking kids**

 **Whiskey:** **I fly out tomorrow morning. I’m leaving for the airport at 4, flight leaves at 6, should be there around 2 then i’ll check into the hotel**

 **Foxtrot:** **oooh fancy**

 **Whiskey:** **oh yeah i’m definitely looking forward to living out of a hotel room**

 **Tango:** **why not rent a place?**

 **Whiskey:** **not sure how long i’ll be sticking around yet, don’t want to sign a lease**

 **Tango:** **smart**

“Who you texting?” Kent leans against the wall. 

“Tango and Ford,” Whiskey answers.

“Tell them I said hi,” Kent climbs onto the couch, curls himself up next to Whiskey, on the opposite side Kit’s curled up on. Whiskey tries to multi task, scratching between Kit’s ears, playing with Kent’s hair, and answering the groupchat, but one typo too many and he picks Kit up and puts her on Kent’s chest. 

“I can’t pet both of you,” he says. 

Kent laughs, “You’re needy aren’t you,” he coos at his cat while Whiskey threads his fingers through his hair. 

“Tango and Ford say hi back.”

**Tango:** **tell him good luck in QC**

Whiskey doesn’t repeat that part. 

**Foxtrot:** **kinda wild, him not being an Ace**

 **Whiskey:** **wild’s one word to describe it**

 **Tango:** **:(**

 **Whiskey:** **we’re fine**

He cuts off any questions before his friends can ask them. 

**Whiskey:** **I’m going to bed, but I’ll tell you when my flight gets it @Foxtrot.**

“Going to bed” means “no longer checking my phone,” but his friends get that. 

He sets his phone on the coffee table. 

“What time do you have to get up?” Kent asks. 

“I want to leave at 4, so I think I might just go to bed early, like as in right now, then get ready. 

“I’ll go to bed with you,” Kent says, “and get up with you and I’m driving you to the airport.”

“You don’t have to,” Whiskey says, he runs his hand over Kent’s forehead, “You can sleep.”

“I want to,” Kent says. 

“Okay.”

“Bed?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey nods. 

“I’m gonna fill up Kit’s water,” I’ll be right there. 

So Whiskey’s already wearing his pajamas, a pair of boxer shorts and a t-shirt, when Kent walks into the bedroom. 

He adjusts his pillow while Kent gets changed , waits for Kent to get into bed before he reaches over to turn off the lamp. He sets his alarm for 2 a.m. before he sets his phone down and rolls over to face Kent. 

He will not think about how tomorrow night, there won’t be any weight on the other side of the bed. 

Kent presses his forehead to Whiskey’s, his thumb comes up to cup Whiskey’s face and Whiskey closes his eyes. They don’t say anything. Whiskey will wonder one day if maybe they should have. But that’s one day, not today. Right now all he wants is to feel Kent’s breath slowing against his chest, to feel Kent’s leg hair tickle his calf. He’ll run his hand over the ace of spades card on Kent’s sleeve and he laughs when Kit plants herself firmly on top of his feet and mews angrily.  _ Don’t leave,  _ she seems to be saying, or at least that’s what Whiskey’s projecting on to it. He wishes he knew how to say  _ i have to,  _ in cat. 

Kent always mutters something before he falls asleep, whether it’s something they have to do tomorrow or a half finished thought. Usually it’s  _ I love you,  _ tonight, it’s  _ I miss you already.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol bummer, right!


	9. You'll show up for work with a smile.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> connor whisk, detroit red wing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from better son/daughter by rilo kiley (which is a whiskey song and i stand by that)  
> there is a general tw for misogyny and some light homophobia. basically, men's hockey players suck and whiskey is around it

Whiskey gets off the plane still trying to hold tight to the way Kent had kissed him goodbye. He’d gotten a lot of kisses this morning and he’ll try to remember them all, because no matter how many times it’s been, he still gets butterflies when Kent kisses him. He remembers the kiss in the morning, when the alarm rang and Kent immediately rolled on top of him to press their lips together. How Whiskey had reached over and hit the snooze button and they had kept kissing, soft, how Whiskey had put his hands on both sides of Kent’s face, swept away a tear with his thumb. He remembers Kent standing in front of the stove making omelettes, he had put his arms around Kent’s waist, pressed a kiss into his neck, Kent had turned to catch Whiskey’s lips, and asked him to grab the pepper. Whiskey did, he almost tripped over Kit who hadn’t left him alone all morning. He tried not to think about how he’d be doing is own cooking, without a cat between his legs and a boyfriend to ask for the pepper. Kent kissed him again. Before they opened the door, Kent had pressed him up against it, ran his hands over Whiskey’s shoulders and just looked at him before gently bringing their lips together and sighing. His head fell onto Whiskey’s shoulder and Whiskey had brought his hand up to hold him there, hand on the back of his head. 

There was a final kiss in the car, on the cheek, on the forehead, on the back of his hand, on his neck, finally on his lips. 

“I love you,” Kent had said. 

“I love you,” Whiskey answered. 

His team appointed assistant doesn’t know that he’s trying to hold on to his boyfriend, even as he’s walking through the airport. 

“Connor Whisk!” She ca;;s, she’s holding a sign with his last name on it, sets it down when she sees him, she extends her hand to shake. 

Whiskey has no choice but to snap back into himself, he has to, wants his first impression to be a good one. 

“Hello,” he reaches for her hand, shakes it firmly. 

She’s young, he thinks she might be his own age if not younger. She’s a few inches shorter than he is, height bolstered by a pair of high heels. She’s wearing a pencil skirt and a red blouse. 

“I met your friend, Denice? She saw my sign and told me you were expecting her.”

“Oh,” Whiskey says, “Yes, uh, where’d she go?”

The woman who still hasn’t given him her name looks around, she points, Whiskey sees a rush of yellow fabric sprinting towards him and two seconds later he’s being hugged by Foxtrot. Her arms only come up to his waist. 

“Thanks for coming,” Whiskey says. 

“Nothing better to do,” Ford shrugs. 

Whiskey knows that’s probably the furthest thing from true, that she makes friends fast, that theatre is hard work and she could definitely be napping. 

It’s a lot to process so Whiskey does what he knows best and he goes on auto-pilot. They pick up his luggage and the woman, who he’s now learned is named Talia, escorts both him and Foxtrot to a car. 

“We have a hotel room set up for you for training camp, of course Denice is more than welcome to come help you get settled in.”

Whiskey doesn’t know if she’s implying what everyone likes to imply, Foxtrot is his girlfriend. He doesn’t think anything about the way they interact that should be read as anything other than platonic as fuck, but that doesn’t change the fact. Fine, he’ll let Talia make that assumption. It’s not lying if he’s not the one who made it up. 

The hotel is downtown and it’s fancy as hell, near the arena,close to the waterfront. He can see Windsor from his hotel room. He’s Red Wing. Well. Not yet, not technically. He’s just a prospect. He’s a guy who may or may not work out on the NHL squad. It’s still crazy to think about. 

“This is my card,” Talia says. She hands Whiskey a piece of cardstock, “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything. Make yourself comfortable, enjoy yourself,” she smiles, “There are a few other prospects staying here, I’m sure you’ll meet them at camp,” she does one last scan of the room, nods to herself and leaves Whiskey and Ford. 

Whiskey hears the door click. He sucks in a huge breath, lets it out and flops down onto the bed. 

“Holy Shit,” he whispers.

Ford squeals and jumps on to the bed next to him. He sits up and she wraps her arms around his neck and grins. 

“This is so cool,” she says. 

“I almost don’t believe it,” Whiskey says. He stands up. The windows are massive, the light’s pouring in. 

He walks over to the desk when Talia left a stack of papers. He looks over the training camp schedule. Morning practice is at 9am, which is actually two hours earlier than he’s used to, but it goes until. 12:00, then they get a lunch break and then they’re in the gym. Whiskey can handle it. He knows he can. For the next week, he’s going to be the perfect hockey player. Just hockey. He’ll be the first one there and the last to leave, he’ll eat clean and he’ll go on extra runs and he’ll get up early and be nothing less than 100 per cent dedicated to the Detroit Red Wings. Because he can’t come so close only to fumble at the last minute. 

“Do you want to get lunch?” he asks. 

“You buying?” Ford grins. 

“Yeah, my treat.” 

So they pick a place that Ford’s heard good things about from her vegan theatre friends and they sit down for a meal. Whiskey gets grilled chicken and kale salad and Ford gets a veggie burger with fries. 

“So how’s your gig going?” Whiskey asks because all he knows is that she’s working at a theatre in Ann Arbor and that she was up until 5am hanging lights last week. 

“It’s great!” Ford grins, “I mean I’m super tired but it’s really good money and the crew are all great to hang out with and it’s such a good opportunity.”

People kind of assume they don’t hang out unless Tango’s around, that Tango’s the guy who gets Whiskey to open up and act like a person and not a shell. Why would the 6’2” hockey guy want to hang out with his hockey manager? But hanging out with Ford is the one time in his life where it doesn’t have to be about hockey all the time. Sure, she cares about hockey and she knows it matters to him, but it’s not her only thing. 

So he learns the plot of the show she’s working on and he listens to her talk about which actors are the most difficult to work with and how after every Saturday show the crew goes and gets wasted at a pub beside the theatre and how Ford’s genuinely really excited to be here even if it is just for the summer. 

It’s nice. 

“How’s Kent?” she asks as they’re heading out. 

“Uhh,” Whiskey says, because honestly, he doesn’t know himself, “Busy,” Whiskey comes up with. 

Ford nods, “I’m sorry, by the way, I know this isn’t what you planned.”

“What we planned was a fantasy,” the sooner Whiskey accepts that, he thinks, the better. 

Ford shrugs. 

“He found a place in Quebec City, he’s moving in next week,” Whiskey can talk about the facts. She doesn’t ask him how he feels about that, he’s glad, “I still have to find a place,” he sighs. 

“What about the hotel?” 

“I’m staying there for training camp,” Whiskey says, “But who knows if I make the team, I don’t want to sign a lease and then find out I’m actually getting sent down and having to move to Grand Rapids.”

“You can stay with me,” Ford says. 

“No way,” Whiskey says immediately. 

“Why not? It’d be fun.”

“I don’t want to bug you.”

“I have a pull out couch, the place I’m subletting is super nice. And really, you’ve got, what? Two weeks before you find out if you’ve made it or not?”

“Maybe,” Whiskey says. 

“Staying in a hotel forever’s gonna suck.” 

“Thank you,” Whiskey finally relents.

“I’m not staying downtown,” Ford says, “As long as that’s fine.”

“I mean I’ll stay in the hotel for this week, for prospects camp, I think that’s where they want me.”

“Makes sense,” Ford says. 

He convinces her to stay and hang out. 

“Come on, I can’t figure out how this TV works all by myself,” he coaxes until she breaks into a grin and races him down the hallway to his room. She wins, but Whiskey will insist that it’s because she had a head start. 

“I’m gonna grab a shower,” he says when they enter the room. 

“I’m gonna test out your fancy pillows,” Ford says. 

Whiskey laughs, he heads into the bathroom, grabs a few hotel towels on the way. He’s waiting for the water to heat up when he realizes that he hasn’t checked his phone all day. He didn’t tell Kent when he landed and he hasn’t checked in once. He suddenly feels really shitty about that. He hits the call button without even thinking about the fact that he’s supposed to be getting in the shower. 

“I’m so sorry,” he blurts the second Kent picks up. 

“Woah,” Kent says. 

“I didn’t call you when I landed and I didn’t even text you,” Whiskey says. 

“It’s fine,” Kent says. 

“It’s not,” Whiskey insists, “You’re my boyfriend I should have made time to talk to you today.”

“That’s what you’re doing right now,” Kent points out, “Are you in the shower?”

“I was just about to get in and then I remembered I need to call you.”

“I get it, busy day-” Kent cuts himself off, “Like… how close to getting in the shower?” Kent asks, Whiskey can hear the flirtation in his voice. 

“Are we already doing this?” Whiskey rolls his eyes but he can’t say he hates the idea, “Ford is literally in the other room,” he whispers. 

He takes his shirt off anyway and snapchats Kent a selfie. It’s boring as far as selfies go, it’s not a nude or anything, but Whiskey does hear Kent’s breath hitch on the other end of the phone. 

“Has anybody ever told you that you’re really hot,” Kent says. 

“Babe,” Whiskey sighs, “I really have to take a shower.”

“Fine,” Whiskey can hear the pout in Kent’s voice

“Hold on,” Whiskey says, and he props his phone up against the mirror so his camera is pointing at the shower, “I don’t know if this is sexy,” he mutters as he hits the facetime call. Kent answers right away. Whiskey sees him sitting in bed, he’s still on his side of the bed. 

“I find it incredibly sexy that you’re even trying to be sexy,” Kent says. 

“Thank you,” Whiskey rolls his eyes. 

The shower curtain partially obscures the view but it’s kind of see through so maybe that’s hot. Whiskey knows how to have sex, okay? He doesn’t know how to be sexy, there’s a difference. Is he supposed to show off, is he supposed to like… jerk off or something. He drops the shampoo halfway through lathering his chest, which completely kills any of the sexual tension he was trying to build. He hears Kent snickering on the phone, so Whiskey flips him off through the shower curtain and finishes washing his hair. He wraps a towel around his waist and scowls at Kent. 

“So maybe not tonight,” Kent’s grinning. 

“You know I’m no good at this,” Whiskey says. 

“It’s cute,” Kent says. 

Whiskey stays on the phone while he walks back out into the hotel room to grab some clothes. To Ford’s credit, she doesn’t react to Kent other than to say. 

“In the shower? Gross.”

To which Kent shouts, “I promise it was deeply unsettlingly un-sexy!”

Whiskey grabs a pair of sweatpants and gets changed in the bathroom. He drapes the towel around his neck and walks back into the hotel room. 

He sits down on the bed next to Ford. 

“Hi Den,” Kent says. 

“Enough chit-chat, where’s the cat?” Ford leans over so she can get a good look at Whiskey’s phone. 

Kent snorts, he flips the camera. Kit’s sitting on top of Whiskey’s pillow. Something about that makes Whiskey’s heart twist. 

“I’m satisfied,” Ford flops back against the pillow. 

Whiskey laughs. 

“I’ll let you two go,” Kent says. 

“Okay,” Whiskey says, “I’ll call you tomorrow, I promise.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey answers, “Okay. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Kent hangs up first. Whiskey relaxes against the soft hotel pillows. He sighs, was he holding his breath? He’s not sure. There’s no reason to hold his breath around Kent,and yet, here he is swallowing a lump in his throat. Foxtrot glances over at him and raises her eyebrow but she doesn’t say anything. 

“Wanna watch a movie?” She asks. 

Whiskey agrees. He eats his leftovers from the restaurant and tries not to fall asleep before the movie’s over. 

“Thank you for being here,” Whiskey says, “It’s uh… it’s a lot,” he gestures to the hotel room, “All of this.”

“Do you want me to stay?” Ford asks. 

Whiskey swallows his pride and nods, “If you will? If you want to.”

“Course,” Ford says, she yawns, leans on Whiskey’s shoulder. It’s not a big deal, Ford doesn’t make it a big deal. Whiskey’s thankful for that. 

They both fall asleep before the movie ends so neither one of them has anything to chirp about in the morning. Whiskey’s quiet when he wakes up, getting ready without disturbing Ford too much. She stirs on her own time 20 minutes before he’s getting ready to leave. 

“Camp?” Ford asks. 

Whiskey nods. 

“I should head home and get changed,” she rubs her eyes. 

“They’re sending a car for me, otherwise I’d walk you to your bus stop.”

Ford shrugs, “We’ll hang out some more later.”

Whiskey agrees.

He’s nervous. Not in any kind of a good way, he feels like his stomach is twisting and digessting itself at the same time. He feels like he might throw up or run away. It feels strange not to have his equipment in his hands, strange to know that someone else has taken care of it. 

Ford waves goodbye to him in the lobby and heads out the door. 

“Yo!” someone calls, Whiskey turns quickly, sees someone waving to him, “Are you Connor Whisk?” the guy asks. 

Whiskey nods, the guy’s tall, lanky, he’s wearing a pair of khakis and a polo shirt, which is also what Whiskey is wearing. He’s speaking with a slight accent but it’s almost imperceptible. 

“I’m Jari,” he says, “I think we’re sharing a car,” he continues, “Talia texted me this morning.”

Whiskey looks down at his phone, sure enough the text message he ignored this morning is from Talia. So he bluffs. 

“Yeah, me too, nice to meet you man. Connor Whisk,” he holds his hand out, Jari claps it and nods, he has a firm handshake. 

“Jari Nieminen, the boys call me Nemo, we’ll see if that catches on here,” he shrugs. 

“Whiskey.”

“Real creative,” Jari smirks.

Whiskey just shrugs. They walk out to the taxi rank together.

“Is this us?” Whiskey asks, looking up at the only car sitting idle. 

Jari looks down at his phone, reads the text and nods. 

They slide into the back seat together. 

“Whisk and Nieminen?” the driver asks. 

“Nice to meet you,” Jari smiles. 

Whiskey wonders if Jari is secretly as nervous as he is, he’s certainly not showing it. 

“Who was that chick you came down with?” Jari asks, “You’re not pulling already, are you?” 

“Oh,” Whiskey says, “No, not her, definitely not. She’s a friend from college.”

“She’s cute, maybe I’ll get her number,” Jari tries to tease. 

Whiskey laughs awkwardly, doesn’t know what else to do, he will most certainly  _ not  _ be giving Jari her number. 

“You’re an NCAA guy, yeah?” Jari asks. He seems to refuse to sit in silence.

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “What about you?”

“SHL,” Jari says, “I play for ‎Djurgårdens, hopefully I’m not going back this season.”

Whiskey nods. 

It’s thankfully not a long drive, so Jari only has time to get him to talk about the hotel. Nothing too personal. 

“Alright, Whiskey,” Jari says, they stand outside the Red Wings practice rink, “Let’s get it.”

Whiskey nods. 

Whiskey does not, get it, so to speak. 

The coach is a hardass, which Whiskey was mostly expecting, but it does catch him slightly off guard when he comes into the room yelling at one of the assistants, seemingly oblivious to the locker room full of prospects. There are at least 50 guys, only 23 roster spots. Whiskey can do math. The guys who were on the team last year are in the home dressing room, Whiskey, Jari and the prospects are in the visitors. The coach yells without even talking to them, just walks in, yells, picks up a stick and walks out. 

Jari lets out a low whistle. He’s already befriended another one of the Finns at training camp. Whiskey decides he’s okay with that. He’s not here to make friends. 

They break them into groups. 

Whiskey has never been anything less than exceptional in his life. He was the best kid in Arizona, the best kid on his roller hockey team, on his lacrosse team in high school, the best kid on the travel teams he played with and then, the best kid at Samwell, one of the best kids in the NCAA. That’s not the case here. He notices it immediately. He’s not as big as some of the guys in the dressing room, but he’s not as lean as some of the others. He doesn’t take to the ice with the same amount of confidence as Jari. He doesn’t score on the goalie when they’re warming up. His edges aren’t as crisp, his shot’s not as hard. He’s not the worst, but he’s used to being the best. 

They get broken into groups, the head coach doesn’t bother with Whiskey’s group in the first half of the day. He gives them one of the assistant coaches, and his prerogative seems to be to run them into the ground before lunch. 

“That sucked, huh?” Jari skates up to him once the assistant calls the first skating session. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “He’s out of breath. 

They eat lunch, the NHL guys sit together, so Whiskey sits with Jari and some of the europeans. 

The afternoon session is in the gym. Whiskey doesn’t lift the most and he’s not in the best shape. And he fucking hates it. He works to be the best, but right now, the best seems unattainable. How much harder can he work?

So he goes harder than he should. All week. He stays late when he has the option and he skates until his feet go numb. He starts wearing black socks again so he doesn’t ruin his white ones with spots of blood. He hears one of the coaches say something about his work ethic and that just prompts him to go even harder. He gets back to the hotel exhausted every day. Every day Jaro asks if he wants to grab a drink or something to eat and Whiskey tells him he’s too tired and Jaro raises his eyebrow but doesn’t say anything besides. 

“You know my room number if you change your mind.”

But Whiskey never changes his mind, because he’s tired and all he wants to do is call Kent and go to sleep even if it is only 5 p.m.when training camp ends. He calls Kent every day, even when there’s nothing to say. 

He’s just  _ tired,  _ in his bones, he’s tired. So the conversations get shorter and Whiskey ends up with less to say and Kent always tells him to go to sleep. But Whiskey doesn’t tell Kent that he thinks he’s the kind of tired that sleep can’t fix. He doesn’t want to worry him, this is his problem to fix, it’s his work to do, his team to make. 

But going to sleep alone is lonely in a way he didn’t expect. He thinks that maybe he’d let himself hope too much. Hope for a life that’s truly  _ together.  _ Maybe that’s why it’s so devastating every time he rolls over and Kent’s not there. 

They play a scrimmage on the last day of training camp. And Whiskey can do this. It’s hockey. He plays hockey, that’s his thing. But he’s forgotten how to be selfish on the ice. His reflex is to make a pass if it gives someone else a better scoring chance, and that’s a good skill to have and he’s proud he developed it, but it’s not what impresses an NHL team that only has 23 roster spots. 

Jari’s next to him on the bench, he leans over. 

“Dude, take a shot,” he says, “They already like you, they just want a guy who can score.”

And Jari has a point, so Whiskey takes a shot on his next shift and it flies clean over the net. Whiskey sinks into himself. Someone chirps him from the other bench. 

The NHL isn’t Samwell. There’s no Dex to shout back and command some respect. There’s no Bitty to tell him to turn the other cheek, no Tango to pat him on the shoulder. It’s just Jari who laughs when the guy on the other team asks him if his mom knows he plays like a bitch. 

And it’s just Whiskey, alone on the ice. Pushing and pushing, and feeling lost. And it’s Whiskey alone in the locker room, taking off his gear, returning the practice jersey. He’s in the car with Jari on the way to the hotel but he still feels alone. Jari invites him to the bar again. And Whiskey’s still tired, but at least he doesn’t have to get up in the morning. So he says yes. 

They sit together at the hotel bar and they drink and Jari talks about the rest of the prospects. Apparently he knows just about everyone, he’s floated around different leagues, come to a bunch of prospect camps, he’s a year younger than Whiskey but he’s been playing pro since he was 18, so Whiskey figures he knows better. 

A few other prospects trickle in and Jari talks to them more, they’re more fun anyway. Whiskey sits and nods while they talk about girls, one of them swears he hooked up with one of the maids but Jari calls him a liar. Someone turns to Whiskey at some point during the night. 

“Well what about you, Whisk? Girl at home or what?”

“Uhhhh,” Whiskey says, “complicated?”

“That a question?” Jari asks, “you either have one or you don’t.”

He shrugs, he’s drunk. 

“Don’t be sus, bro,” one of the swedes pipes in.

“You could definitely pick up tonight, we could go out, somewhere better. You look depressed as hell, let’s get you some pussy,” Jari says. 

“I’ve got a girl,” Whiskey says. 

“You could still get some pussy,” Jari says. 

“You guys don’t have road rules?” the swede continues. 

“Hollander’s right,” Jari says, “Everybody has road rules. She probably assumes you’re banging other chicks as we speak, it’s part of the gig.”

“Not for us,” Whiskey mumbles. 

Whiskey hates that he lets himself be convinced to go to a club with these guys, even after that conversation, but he does. He doesn’t have the energy to protest, to keep making up a fake girlfriend story.

He’s already drunk when him, Jari and Hollander get in the uber but he orders another drink at the club. Jari makes quick work of it, finding a girl and her friend, introduces himself and Whiskey and before Whiskey knows it he’s being pulled to the dancefloor by a blonde in a dress so tight that he wonders how she gets out of it at the end of the night. 

“Jari said you play hockey,” she shouts into his ear over the music. 

“Yeah!” Whiskey shouts, he’s not going to explain prospect camp to this girl right now.

She has her hands on Whiskey’s shoulder and he wishes they were Kent’s. And she’s moving his hands so they’re on his hips and he wishes they were Kent’s hips. 

She shouts something over the music but Whiskey doesn’t hear, so he just smiles, nods and says, “Yeah, no, for sure,” it covers all the bases. 

Well, not really because then she’s leaning in and kissing him and he’s caught all the way off guard, his eyes are still open and his first thought is,  _ god, I wish you were Kent.  _ His second thought is that he hears Jari whooping and hollering at him and his stomach sinks. This is who he’s supposed to be. This isn’t who he wants to be. The NHL isn’t Samwell. He knows that. For a long time, he held that fact against Samwell when maybe it should have been the other way around. But the NHL isn’t Samwell and that’s just how it is and Connor Whisk the NHLer is supposed to kiss girls, and score goals and if he can’t score goals maybe he can at least kiss girls? It’s fuzzy. 

_ kent _

He feels sick. He tells the girl who’s name he never got, who’s name he never will get, that he’ll be back, he just has to go to the bathroom. And he leaves. And then he runs. And he doesn’t know where he is but he won’t cry and he won’t throw up, he just has to get out of there. 

He wakes up on a pull-out couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spicy  
> whiskey sure is not perfect. pls get a therapist in detroit u dipshit   
> also i have officially started class again so rip to any kind of normal update schedule, i wanted to post a long-ish one before shit got crazy so here you go!  
> as always comments are appreciated unless ur telling me what i got wrong about the nhl training camp schedule, because i don't care about the nhl training camp schedule or process even a little


	10. Does your mother care? Does she still pray?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from Memphis by Kitten  
> see end notes for a very brief trigger warning!!!

“Oh fuck,” Whiskey groans into an unfamilliar pillow. 

He opens his eyes slowly, he smells something floral, smells coffee and a little bit of vanilla. He bolts upright, looks around. 

“You’re awake,” Ford’s familiar voice, he looks around, sees her standing in the corner of a small living room. 

“Oh what the fuck,” Whiskey says. 

“Here,” Ford throws him a bottle of yellow gatorade, he cracks it and opens it. 

So Whiskey would never cheat on Kent, like he’d never go home with someone else, but the last thing he can remember is dancing with that girl and her kissing him and he woke up in a strange place that smells unmistakably like  _ girl.  _ So forgive him if be panicked thinking he might have gotten drunk and done something awful. 

“Time?” Whiskey asks. 

“Close to noon, 11:39.”

“How the fuck did I get here?”

“Wow, you were drunk, huh?”

“Sure feels like it,” Whiskey rubs his head. 

“You called me,” Ford says, “Do you seriously not remember?”

Whiskey shakes his head, it’s all fuzzy. 

“You called at like, 3 in the morning? I think,” Ford says. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Whiskey mutters. 

“S’fine, I was awake anyway. You wouldn’t tell me what happened, just that you were lost and you needed a place to sleep.”

Whiskey nods, “I went drinking with some of the other prospects. Nemo invited me, Niemenen, the guys call him Nemo but I just called him Jari since that’s his first name, I went a little crazy.”

“You never go crazy,” Ford raises an eyebrow, “No offense, but you were fucked up when I picked you up.”

“We were celebrating,” Whiskey shrugs, “Drinks with the boys, it’s just part of it, right?”

“Sure, I guess,” Ford says, “Did you at least have a good time?”

“Wish I could remember,” Whiskey jokes, he laughs easily. 

It’s enough for Ford, she’s satisfied. 

“So how was camp?” She asks when she sets a plate of eggs and toast down next to him, Whiskey considers the subject officially changed from his drunken escapades. 

“Fine,” Whiskey shrugs, “Hard, m’tired, hopefully it’s worth it,” Whiskey suspects deep down that it won’t be worth it. 

Thank god for Ford moving on though. He can’t think about last night. He remembers the feeling of that girl pressed up against him but what he remembers more is the way Jari had whooped and hollered, the way that he had felt almost proud of himself for being exactly what they wanted. He remembers them telling him that everyone cheats on their girlfriend on the road and he feels a little nauseous because he just let them keep saying that shit.Because he wouldn’t cheat on Kent… but he did… kind of. He has to tell him, that thought makes him nauseous all over again. 

Ford interrupts his thoughts.

“The offer still stands, you can stay here, if you want to go get your stuff from the hotel later today, you can get set up while I’m at work.”

“When do you leave for work?”

“In like 20 minutes, I leave a key taped behind the mailbox,” she says 

So Whiskey takes an uber back to the hotel. He’s ignoring his headache, walking down the hallway, he double checks his texts from Talia to make sure that he has the room number right even though he’s known the number for a week. 

“Yo Whisk!” He hears Jari’s lightly accented voice and turns to face him, he forces a smile and nods. 

“Hey man,” Whiskey says. 

“Did you go home with that chick?” Jari claps him on the shoulder, Whiskey winces but passes it off as a laugh. 

He shrugs non-comitally. 

“Oh come on, don’t go all  _ a gentleman never tells on me _ ,” Jari rolls his eyes, “she totally put out, didn’t she.”

Whiskey laughs again, “Wouldn’t you like to know,” and then he winks in a way that makes it seem like she definitely had sex with him and he feels  _ really  _ bad about that, but what else is he supposed to do?

“So what are you up to?” Whiskey asks, changing the subject. 

“Heading to the gym,” Jari says, “Not much else to do until they tell us where to report, right?” Jari says. He’s a lot more casual about this than Whiskey, maybe because he’s done this before, “You?”

“Just here to get my stuff, I’m staying with a friend.”

Jari raises an eyebrow, Whiskey shrugs. 

“Well, I’ll let you get to it, I hope I get to see more of you, man. One hell of a player.”

“You too,” Whiskey says. 

He unlocks his hotel door. He gasps for a breath the second the door closes. Has to sit down on the bed to catch his breath, runs his hands through his hair. His fingers hover over Kent’s contact in his phone, he thinks better of it. He’ll wait until he’s feeling better to talk to Kent today. 

He throws his stuff into the suitcase as quickly as he possibly can, he just wants to get out of here. He knows he’s not making the NHL team. It’s another one of those things, the sooner he accepts it, the sooner he can get over it. And if he gets over it before they assign him to the minors, well then it won’t crush him when it finally happens. 

Foxtrot isn’t home when Whiskey gets back to her place, so he goes for a run. What else is he supposed to do? He can’t sit still long enough to watch TV or read a book, there’s no homework to. He can’t make himself dial anyone’s phone number even though her really really should, he knows he should, knows he’s isolating, but he wouldn’t know what to say or where to start. So he runs. At least that’s work, at least he’s doing something, at least he can convince himself he’s improving.

Ford’s place is near the Detroit River, so there’s a nice view for his run. He cranks the music as loud as it goes to drown out the noise of the city. It’s a grey city, he doesn’t know how else to describe it. The buildings are all the same colour and the pavement gets more and more cracked the further he gets from part of the city with skyscrapers and office buildings. Everythings flat, he misses jogging the canyons at home, misses the dry heat and the dust on his shoes. He decides not to think about what he misses. 

He takes a break near the river, catches his breath against a metal bench. The music in his headphones cuts out. He looks down at his phone, sees his mom’s contact, he hits accept. 

“Hey!” He says, he’s not faking the energy, the run pumped him up, but he does find himself smiling the same way he does when he’s trying to trick her. 

“You said you were going to call last night,” she says. 

“Oh shi- I mean, shoot, sorry, it was busy,” he says. 

“Of course,” his mom says, “Good you’re keeping busy. You sound out of breath?” “Went for a run,” Whiskey says. 

“Ah,” she says, Whiskey can hear water running, she’s probably doing the dishes at the same time, “How do you like the city.”

“It’s not quite home yet, but it’s nice,” Whiskey says. 

“Good good, and the team?”

“What about the team?”

“Do you like them?”

“Uh,” Whiskey says, “Well I haven’t made the team yet, it’s still just camp”

“Right, but you will.”

“Nothing’s for sure.”

“Well,” his mom says, Whiskey wishes he could cut the tension somehow, “I just wanted to see how you were doing, that’s all.”

“Thanks,” Whiskey says. 

“Right, well, I’ll let you get back to your run, love you.”

“Love you too.”

“Okay bye.”

“Bye.”

Whiskey ends the call. He still feels winded. He looks out at the river. He wonders what would happen if he just jumped in, swam away, floated away. He could probably make it to Windsor, it’s warm enough. What if he just left? It’d be a story at least, the Red Wings prospect who went missing. Which is a dark thought, he realizes, but disappearing? It’s tempting. At least then he won’t have to deal with the phone call he’s going to get telling him to find a place to stay in Grand Rapids so he can play for the AHL team, he won’t have to deal with his parents’ pretending not to be disappointed about that. 

He shakes his head, straightens his back and takes off sprinting. He’s just gonna go, fast and hard. He pushes himself all the way back to Ford’s apartment. He showers, knows he can’t disappear, knows that’s a dumb idea. Ford’s at a lighting hang, and Whiskey doesn’t know what that is or how long that takes so he holes up on the couch. There’s a Cardinals game on so he turns that on, tries to get lost in it. He checks his messages, nothing. He knows Kent must be keeping his distance because he knows Whiskey’s busy and stressed, waiting for Whiskey to reach out, but Whiskey doesn’t know what he’d say that’s not so fucking depressing, and Kent’s got his own stuff to deal with, and he just can’t bring himself to bother him right now. He’ll be moving in by the end of the weekend, he’ll call then, once everything is settled. 

Whiskey gets back to Ford’s house a little before dinner time, he unlocks the door himself, since he took the spare key with him. He hears voices, Ford’s and Tango’s. Tango’s voice is tinny and Whiskey sees Ford holding her phone in front of her. 

“He just walked in actually,” Ford says. 

“Yooooo! Whiskey!” Tango shouts. 

Whiskey chuckles, plops himself down on the couch next to Ford. 

“Where were you?” Ford asks. 

“Went for a run,” Whiskey shrugs. 

“Man never takes a break,” Tango smirks, “That’s why you’re in the NHL and not me,” Whiskey looks at his lopsided grin. 

“Ah, not in the NHL yet,” Whiskey reminds him. 

“How was camp?” Tango asks. 

“It was cool,” Whiskey lies. 

“How were the other guys?”

“It’s no SMH, but they were chill, they’re all realy good.”

“Whiskey got wasted last night,” Ford giggles. 

“Aw come on!” Tango teases, “Took two years to drag you to kegster, but a week with these guys and you’ll go out?”

“What can I say, you guys loosened me up,” Whiskey jokes. 

“Proud of you,” Tango winks, it’s only half a joke. 

“He’s already making friends,” Ford joins in with the other half of the joke. 

“How was camp?” Whiskey changes the subject. 

“Ah, pretty good, I really liked the kids. I’m gonna start working on my application for teacher’s college in a couple weeks, try and get in for the winter,” Tango says. 

“S’wawesome,” Whiskey says. 

“Yep,” Tango answers. 

“You’ve really got it figured out, huh?” Ford asks. 

Tango shrugs, “We’re all figuring it out aren’t we?”

“Grad school doesn’t count as figuring it out,” Ford answers. 

“Well we can’t all be in the NHL at 23,” Tango says. 

Ford elbows him and grins, she looks proud. Whiskey knows she’ll look less so in a couple weeks when they all find out he wasn’t good enough. She’ll pretend, she’ll still smile and hug him, but she won’t look like she does right now. 

“Ha,” Whiskey says. 

It’s quiet, too quiet, he’s supposed to say something, maybe about training camp, about how he’s pumped to play for the Red Wings. He doesn’t have any of that to say though, so he just clears his throat, slaps his hands against his thighs and looks over at Ford.

“I definitely smell,” Whiskey says getting up, “Can I use your shower?”

She nods, “Yeah, of course! There are towels in the bathroom that you can use.”

“Thanks,” he says, he stands up, “Talk to you later, T,” Whiskey says. 

Tango waves at his phone camera. Whiskey gets up and heads to the bathroom. He turns the water all the way to cold. It feels good after sweating all day, after worrying all day. He runs his hands through his hair, over his face, groans. He thinks he could cry if he had it in him. But right now he just feels empty. 

He towels off in the bathroom, pulls his sweatpants back on and looks at his phone. 

**Kent:** **hey**

 **Kent:** **you busy?**

Whiskey taps out a quick answer. 

**Whiskey:** **sorry, you texted literally right as i got in the shower**

 **Kent:** **It’s okay**

 **Kent:** **call?**

 **Whiskey:** **sure.**

The phone vibrates in his hand, he picks up on the first ring

“Hi,” he says, he sits down on the edge of Ford’s bathtub. 

“Hey,” whiskey can almost hear the gentle smile through the phone. 

“New place feels big,” Kent says, “It’s actually smaller than the place in Vegas but…”

Kent doesn’t need to finish Whiskey knows. 

Kent clears his throat, “Where are you now?”

“I’m at Ford’s,” Whiskey says, “Just waiting to hear from the team,” Whiskey says. 

“I’m excited for you,” Kent says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says without an ounce of excitement. 

“Are you okay?” Kent asks, of course he notices something is wrong, he always does.

“Oh!” Whiskey brightens his tone, “All good, just tired, went for a run earlier today. A little jet lag still.”

“Oh. Okay, good, I’m glad.”

“What about you? How are you?”

“Doin’ okay,” Kent says, “It’s still weird. Miss you.”

“I miss you too,” Whiskey says.

“If you’re tired,” Kent says, “I can let you go, it’s late,” Kent says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “You should get some sleep too.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. 

“Good night,” Whiskey says. 

“Good night,” Kent says back. 

“Love you,” Whiskey adds. 

“I love you too.”

He takes a deep breath after he hangs up. Runs his hand through his hair. 

Whiskey’s doing fine, as far as Ford knows, as far as Tango knows, as far as anyone knows. Even Kent thinks everything’s fine and Kent knows him better than anyone in the world. If hockey doesn’t work out, maybe he can ask Ford for an acting job. He can’t keep telling Kent he’s tired, so he switches between busy and tired. He works out like a madman, roller blades around the parking lot, finds a basketball court a few blocks away and takes a couple pucks and one of his sticks out every afternoon. He’s not good enough, he knows that. It’s starting to feel like he’ll never get there. Goodnight phone calls turn into text messages. 

A couple days before July and Whiskey decides to call Kent, which hasn’t happened in a while. Kent initiates their conversations more often than not, Whiskey really is a shitty boyfriend. He’s watching ESPN after his morning jog and before he heads to the basketball court. He sees Kent’s face. He’s wearing a dark blue t-shirt, a Quebec Nordiques logo on the left shoulder. He doesn’t realize it’s him at first, Whiskey’s so used to seeing Kent in black and red. 

It’s a press conference after an optional skate from what Whiskey can guess, not usually cause for a press conference, but Kent’s special like that. Whiskey reaches for the remote, turns it up. He hears Kent laughing, takes a sip of his water. 

“Y’know, I just want to say before we get started, my french is a little rusty and I didn’t bring my dictionary, so take it easy.”

There’s a buzz of laughter from the reporters. Someone off camera calls on a reporter. 

“Hi Kent, Shawn Trellow, Ottawa Sun,”

“Thanks for making the trip for little old me,” Kent smiles. 

Shawn Trellow laughs and continues his question, “The details of your acquisition are still a bit hazy, can you clear that up for us? Did you ask for this trade?”

“It was a mutual decision,” Kent says. That’s a lie, no one could tell by looking at him though.

“Did you leave Vegas on bad terms?” Trellow continues. 

“No,” Kent says, “I still love Vegas, I love the city, I love the fans and I loved playing for that team. There’s always going to be a special place in my heart for the team that drafted me,” Kent says, he looks thoughtful and then he smiles again. 

Someone else gets called on. 

“Abigail Henley, Montreal Gazette,”

“Hi Abigail,” Kent smiles. 

“Uh, yes, hello. Stars of your caliber don’t often end up on year one expansion teams, what are you trying to accomplish here?” 

Kent’s still smiling, “Well obviously the goal is always going to be to win a Stanley Cup. I’m serious about that,” Kent says, “I got to meet the guys today and I think it’s safe to say that this group has it in them, I think we might surprise you.”

“Claude Ouelette, NordiquesNation.com, it’s great to have you here, Kent,”

“Great to be here,” Kent answers. 

“It’s not your first time playing for a team in Quebec, how does it feel to be back.”

“Uh, like I said, I think I might have to break out the old french dictionary,” Kent earns a round of laughs, “Obviously Quebec City and Rimouski are different places but I loved being in Quebec when I was a teenager and I love what I’ve seen of the city so far, but yeah, it’s different, for sure, I’m different.”

“Can you elaborate on what you mean by you’re different.”

“Older,” Kent chuckles, “I’ve got more experience, I like to think I see the game better than I did when I was seventeen, like to think m’wiser,” Kent trails off, “But, uh, the goal’s the same for me. It’s always going to be the same for me, winning.”

Someone off camera thanks Kent for his time, and Kent grins again, gives a nod of his head, puts his hat back on,backwards, obviously, and stands up. He’s so charming, he makes it all look so easy and it’s so easy to love him, it’s so easy to find things to love.

“Hey,” Kent’s out of breath when he answers the phone.

“Hi,” Whiskey says, “Shit, whas that live?”

“Uh, I think it was on like a minute delay if you just watched it,” Kent says. 

“Yeah, I called right after you left the podium, I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“Well I did,” Kent says, “Hold on,” Whiskey hears chatter, like Kent’s put his hand over his phone, or pressed it against his chest. He hears a door close. 

“Sorry,” Kent says, “I don’t know where’s good to hide at their practice arena yet,” Kent laughs. 

“Where are you?” Whiskey asks. 

“Uhhh,” Kent says, “Women’s washroom, I think,” Kent says, “Seems like a safe bet, there was only one lady journo so hopefully she doesn’t have to pee.”

“I will never understand how your brain works,” Whiskey laughs, feels light for the first time in a while. 

“Good press conference, they’re gonna love you there.”

“What can I say, I’m charming,” Kent says. 

“I guess I just wanted to call and say hi, it’s been a couple days.”

“Yeah, it has,” Kent says. 

“You look weird in blue.”

“I feel pretty weird in blue,” Kent agrees. 

“So how much of that press conference was actually true?” Whiskey asks. 

“Ah, most of it, I don’t lie, I just don’t tell them everything either, it’s nice here, the guys are good, team’s good. I did actually pack my dictionary from grade 11 french, so, yeah.”

“The guys are good? Like actually?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so, so far anyway. Most of ‘em are younger, another handful of guys who’ve been in the league a while, I think most of ‘em are a little intimidated. I know that makes me sound kind of full of myself.”

“Not really. I’d be intimidated to play with you too.”

“Would you really?” Kent asks. 

“I mean yeah,” Whiskey says, “Not to pump your tires, but you’re kind of a big deal.”

Kent laughs. 

“I’m serious, you have a Stanley Cup and every trophy there is to win, and you’re like  _ the guy  _ when people think about expansion teams getting really good.”

“Thank you baby,” Kent says. 

“I’m sure they’ll warm up once they figure out you’re actually a dork.”

“Wow,” Kent says, “Jerk,” he’s smiling through the words, Whiskey feels warm. 

“I’m glad you’re doing good though,” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah, I think this’ll work out, y’know? I can learn to like it here.”

“I know what you mean,” Whiskey says, that’s a lie. He has a feeling that no matter how ard he tries, this isn’t the right place for him, “So what’s the team like?” Whiskey asks. 

“Seems kind of cobbled together if I’m being honest, but it’s an expansion team so it would be, ha. Uhh, they just traded for this goalie who seems cool. He’s literally Australian which is a new accent in the locker room,” Kent laughs at himself, “They drafted a lot of french Canadians, which is like a thing, when you play in Quebec. A lot of older guys, there’s this one kid from Providence, I think he knows Zimms. Uh yeah, and then the draft picks haven’t joined the team yet but we’ve got this winger from the WHL who’s gonna be something good. It’s weird, seein’ how young they are.”

“You’re not that old,” Whiskey says. 

“29’s almost 30,” Kent points out. 

“Speaking of your birthday,” Whiskey says, “Date night?”

“I’d like that,” Kent says, “Nothing big,” he says. 

Kent’s not the biggest fan of celebrating his own birthday. One year they watched the fireworks together, another they went to a barbeque, but Kent’s birthday has never been the focal point. That’s what he gets for being born on a major holiday. 

“We can just cook and watch a movie then,” Whiskey says. 

“Okay,” Kent says, “It’s a plan then.”

“Good,” Whiskey says, “I’ll uh, let you go before someone comes looking for you.”

“Good idea.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Whiskey looks down at his blank screen. He smiles. Because he’s in love, because he has a date scheduled, because scheduling dates is something that good boyfriends do and it’s not perfect but it’s his and maybe this is going to be fine and then his phone rings again and he hopes maybe it’s Kent because Whiskey would listen to Kent tell him everything about his day. 

It’s not. 

It takes 45 seconds for the general manager of the Detroit Red Wings to tell him he didn’t make the team. It takes another minute for him to tell him he’s being assigned to the minors and that the team can help him find somewhere to stay in Grand Rapids. 

He thanks him and then he throws his phone to the other side of the couch and sighs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is a very brief trigger warning  
> during his run, whiskey looks out at the river and thinks about what would happen if he just jumped in and disappeared. he isn't actively suicidal but this could definitely be considered suicidal ideation and he's aware that it's a weird and dark thought. It's a short paragraph immediately after the phone call with his mom if you would like to skip it  
> ~~~~~~~~~~
> 
> whiskey is just getting punched repeatedly in the face and im very sorry about that. this will get sad before it gets sweet again :/ (but also 😈)  
> in other news, school is kicking my ass so i am very sorry that this is slower


	11. Am I crazy for wanting a little bit more?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some things are important to let Kent know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from a little more by Alessia Cara

“I wish I was with you,” Kent says. 

Whiskey nods. He hasn’t seen much of Kent’s new place other than over skype and facetime. He knows that his bedroom walls are a light blue colour and that he bought new sheets when he moved. He knows that there’s an actual office in this place, his jerseys are framed on the wall behind him, all the way down to his very first minor hockey team. Whiskey thinks they're nice, he wonders why he’s never seen them. He thinks maybe he’ll ask about them one day. But not right now. Right now he’s trying his hardest to be the best boyfriend on Kent’s birthday. 

“I wish I was with you too,” Whiskey says, “More than anything.”

“So what’s for dinner?” Kent asks. 

“I ordered tacos from this place that Ford likes,” Whiskey says. 

“Nice,” Kent nods and then he holds up a takeout container of chicken parmesan, the official staple food of athletes pretending that they’re going to eat well. 

“How’s everything going up there?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent has his hands in front of him, he’s playing with something off camera that Whiskey can’t see. 

“Good, I saw Swoops and Kells the other day, Benji’s getting big.”

Whiskey smiles softly, “I saw the picture she posted. It was cute.”

“Me or the baby?” Kent teases. 

Whiskey rolls his eyes, “Both,” he smiles fondly. 

It doesn’t feel the same, not by any measure. He wants to reach out, to put his hand on top of Kent’s so he doesn’t have to fidget. He wants Kent to steal his fries after insisting he didn’t want any. He wants to lean over the table and kiss him, fuck, does he ever want to kiss him. 

“How are they?” Whiskey asks, he wants to keep the conversation on Kent, away from himself at all costs. 

He’s at the dining room table in Ford’s apartment, she’s at work, they’re running a matinee and an evening performance so she’ll be gone until 3 and pass out the second she gets home. 

“They’re good. Swoops likes his team, a lot. They’re going to make him an A when the season starts. Don’t tell anyone though, obviously.”

Whiskey smiles, nods, “What about you.”

“I like it here,”Kent admits, “The city’s nice. I’m relearning how to talk which is helpful. And the team is kind of like, really awesome. I mean obviously they’re not the Aces, but these guys are good, they just need that little push and I think we have something here.”

“I’m so glad,” Whiskey grins. 

“But what about you?” Kent asks. 

“We don’t have to talk about me,” Whiskey says, “It’s your birthday.”

“I want to talk about you though,” Kent frowns slightly, he takes a bite of his dinner. 

Whiskey shrugs, “Same old, same old, working out, hanging out with Ford. Watching some TV.”

“What are you watching?” Kent asks. 

“Arrested Development. Ford likes Forensic Files.”

“We should Netflix party some time,” Kent says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey agrees. 

Whiskey won’t tell him about the team, not today. It’s Kent’s birthday and the last thing he wants to give Kent on his birthday is a burden. Because Whiskey knows Kent, he knows this will bother him. 

“Ford’s doing good,” Whiskey says before Kent can ask about hockey, “She told me to tell you she says hi.”

“Tell her I say hi back,” Kent smiles

“Your hair looks good like that,” Whiskey says, Kent’s moving it out of his eyes. 

He hasn’t really changed anything, just let it grow out. 

“I was gonna get it cut this week,” Kent says. 

“I like it,” Whiskey says. 

“Hmmm,” Kent considers, “Maybe I’ll just get a trim then.”

“Up to you,” Whiskey says, “I think you look good no matter what.”

“Aw babe,” Kent teases. 

Whiskey rolls his eyes fondly. 

Kent doesn’t ask about hockey or the Red Wings for the entire night, mostly because Whiskey keeps steering the conversation away from it. They watch a movie together and Kent falls asleep on facetime and Whiskey just sits and watches him. The phone fell slightly so he can’t see the top half of his face but he imagines his eyes closed, face relaxed. His mouth hangs open slightly and he snores ever so softly. Whiskey can hear him breathing, he’s not quite snoring yet. It always surprises Whiskey how much he misses Kent’s snoring. The way his breath catches, the way he seems to mutter to himself when he turns over, how his breath is hot against Whiskey’s neck when he moves to be closer. Ford’s apartment feels cold even though it’s the fourth of July. 

He tells Ford and Tango about hockey before he tells Kent. He’s been carefully avoiding the subject, acting like he doesn’t quite know yet, not technically lying, just not telling the truth. Ford’s on facetime with Tango one night when Whiskey gets home from a run. He sits down on the couch and he just says it, blurts it out, “I’m not an NHL player,” he tells them as little as he can. Doesn’t tell them about how much he hated camp, how uncomfortable he felt. He acts like it’s just a temporary setback, rather than what he knows it is. The end. That’s what it feels like anyway. They act like he’ll be fine, and Whiskey thinks they’re both really good actors. 

Near the end of the summer, when the run of Ford’s show is nearly done and she’s making plans to head back to Samwell, there’s a knock on the door. They’re expecting Tango, coming to hang out for a few days now that his second round of summer camp is over. Whiskey is not expecting Tango to have Kent in tow. 

Whiskey stands up from the couch where he’s sitting, mouth hanging open. Kent just smirks, still standing in the doorway, while Tango looks oddly proud. 

“Well don’t look so surprised, you didn’t think I was going to let us spend the whole summer apart.”

“I thought you’d be busy,”Whiskey says. 

“Not for you,” Kent shrugs, he pulls Whiskey into a brief hug. 

All Whiskey is thinking about is how he’s going to have to tell Kent that he’s moving to Grand Rapids in two weeks and that he won’t be taking an NHL faceoff any time soon.

He does it that night.

The four of them go to dinner together, at a burger joint that apparently comes highly recommended by one of Ford’s crewmates. It’s good, but Whiskey doesn’t enjoy it knowing what has to come next. They decide to walk by the river, they get ice cream and generally look like tourists. It’s fine. Whiskey gives Tango a look which he immediately understands to mean, “show Ford something on your phone so I can talk to Kent without looking like a dick and asking you guys to leave us alone.” It’s nice having friends who get it that quickly. 

Whiskey and Kent keeping walking while Tango and Ford stop. Kent’s holding a milkshake and looking down at his shoes. 

“So I uh, wanted to tell you,” Whiskey starts. Kent’s easy smile falters, Whiskey clears his throat, “I didn’t make the team,” he says. 

“Shit,” Kent mutters, “How long have you known?”

“Since a couple days before your birthday,” Whiskey mumbles. 

“Fuck, Whisk,” Kent says, “You could’ve told me.”

“I was waiting for the right time I guess,” Whiskey says, he kicks a rock on the ground. 

“I thought you were gonna break up with me,” Kent says, quiet. 

“What?” Whiskey turns to him, misses a half step but keeps walking. 

Kent takes a sip of his milkshake, “You were just… I dunno I could tell something was off but I didn’t know how to ask.”

“Shit,” Whiskey says, “No, no way, never. I’ll never do that,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

Kent waves him off, “We’re still getting used to this,” Whiskey doesn’t know exactly what he means by that, but he’ll take it. 

Kent got a hotel room for the weekend so Ford doesn’t have to host all three of them in her tiny temporary apartment. Whiskey stays with Kent.

“So what’s the plan for the season?” Kent asks,he swipes his card and pushes open the door, Whiskey follows with his hands in his pockets. 

“They want me in Grand Rapids,” Whiskey says, “Maybe I get called up for a pre-season game or two, but probably not.”

“Oh shit,” Kent says, “Grand Rapids that’s…”

“Even farther away from you,” Whiskey says. 

Kent scratches the stubble on his chin, “We’ll find a way.”

Whiskey nods, “Thought you’d say that.”

“All those frequent flyer miles.”

Whiskey laughs. 

“How are you though,” Kent asks. 

Whiskey shrugs, “Temporary setback,” he says, more confident than he feels. 

“Are you sure? I know it’s hard.”

There’s something mean inside of Whiskey that he has to bite down. Kent doesn’t know, he can’t, never been anything less than exceptional. 

He just nods, “I’m sure it’s a nice place. I’m in a groupchat with a bunch of the guys, they seem chill. I was in the same hotel as one of them for camp, so,” Whiskey shrugs, “It’ll be fine.”

“Promise?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey laughs, “Absolutely,” it doesn’t feel like a lie but it doesn’t feel like a promise he’ll keep either. 

Whiskey’s just glad to have the chance to sleep next to Kent this weekend. He won’t let him go for as long as they’re in this hotel room. Some part of his body is always going to be touching some part of Kent. He’ll memorize him so that it hurts less when they leave, so he misses less and forgets less. He traces the outline of his body, runs his hand over every muscle, runs his fingers through every hair. He can’t kiss all the freckles on his nose and his back because that would be impossible but he kisses a lot of them. He makes a note of every noise Kent makes. Deep sigh when he opens the curtains in the morning. A startled yelp when Whiskey presses his cold hands to the back of his neck. A breathy moan when Whiskey slips his hand into Kent’s boxers.He loves the way Kent feels in every sense of the word. He wants to remember it all because after this weekend he doesn’t know when the next time he’ll get to have it is. 

Hockey is their lives, but sometimes it feels like it’s taking more than it’s giving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are much appreciated!


	12. Some came from the mountain, college kids from the west

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whiskey's first games in Grand Rapids and a call up to the big league makes for a pretty eventful preseason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from cynical bastards by the arkells

Connor Whisk lived with hockey players in a frat house for nearly two years, he can handle Jari Niemenen. Everyone thinks it’s a good idea for him to move in with someone else. His mom tells him it’ll be nice to have someone to eat dinner with and Ford tells him it’ll be nice to have someone to talk to so he doesn’t spend all his time outside the rink alone, Tango tells him it’ll be cool to have a gym buddy and his dad says Jari will be able to show him the ropes, how different can the SHL be from the AHL? Kent’s just glad Whiskey won’t be alone. 

Whiskey wonders how long until his boyfriend wrestles Jari’s number out of him and starts using it to check in on him. It won’t get to that point if he can help it. Kent won’t have a reason to worry because he’s going to be fine. It’s going to be fine. He’ll make this work. It wasn’t the plan but he’s still getting paid ridiculous amounts of money to play hockey, and he can work his way back up, he can get back on track, he’s done it before. Being here is punishment for not being good enough, so he’ll be better. 

He’ll do it by working his entire ass off. There’s a gym in his apartment building, it was Whiskey’s only request when he and Jari told the team the were looking for a place. It’s near the arena, they could walk if they really wanted, but they won’t. Jari has a nice car he offers to drive them both. 

Whiskey feels kind of bad for disliking Jari, he’s nice to him, but there’s just something about him that annoys Whiskey. Every time he talks Whiskey has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. 

They’ve lived together for two weeks so far and Jari has already had six girls over, four who spent the night, all of whom Whiskey saw in the morning leaving the apartment looking vaguely disappointed while Jari slept in his bedroom.

Jari doesn’t know about Kent, and he never will. He’s not a dick, Whiskey doubts he’d hate crime him over it, but he is the kind of guy who can’t keep his fucking mouth shut. So Whiskey only calls Kent when he’s alone or in his own room.It’s a sharp difference from when he was at Samwell and he could answer the phone in the kitchen, the only thing keeping him from facetiming Kent in front of his housemates was his own dislike of PDA. Still, it was nice to know they wouldn’t have made a big deal about it. 

It’s been a lot of silence. Whiskey goes to the gym and he goes to practice and he goes on runs and he talks to Kent and night and he gets up and does it all again, getting ready for the season. His teammates call him “Quiet,” like that’s his nickname, “Quiet.” what an impression. He kind of can’t get it out of his head that they don’t like him, they won’t like him.

They’ve played four pre-season games and Whiskey has scored 5 goals and added 3 assists on top of that. He’s not quite feeling good yet, but he’s okay. That’s the amount of goals he should have. 

“Yo!” Jari greets Whiskey as Whiskey walks into the apartment after his morning run. Jari is holding a mug of coffee between his thighs and sitting on the couch, feet on the coffee table, PS4 controller in his hand. 

“You want in on this?” Jari gestures at their second controller, “We have room for one more party member. 

Whiskey shrugs, he plops down on the couch next to Jari and picks up the second controller. 

“Yo, Whisk is gonna join us,” Jari says into his headset. 

“Fuck yeah,” one of them says. Tyler Fischer, Whiskey’s pretty sure, one of the usernames is smellsfischy, so it’s a solid bet. 

“I didn’t know you were a video game guy,” the other guy says, Whiskey recognizes him immediately, Ilya Chernyshevsky, he’s the only russian on the team, still has the accent. 

Whiskey shrugs, then realizes they can’t see him so he puts on his own headset, “I play a little. Hope I’m not dead weight.”

“Ah, Nemo’s a good teacher,” Fischer says. 

“Damn, was that a compliment, Fish?” Jari teases. 

“Come on let’s just play,” Chernyshevsky

“You got it Shevs,” Jari says. 

Jari actually takes a couple seconds at the beginning of the match to hold up his own controller. Whiskey looks over at him a few seconds later. 

“How do I aim again?” He asks. 

“Left button,” Jari says, he moves Whiskey’s hand for him onto the button above the left trigger. 

Whiskey dies first. 

“Aw man,” Jari says. 

“Told ya, I’m dead weight,” Whiskey laughs. 

“Opposite beginner’s luck,” Shevs says. 

They respawn for the next match. Whiskey makes it through an entire round without getting shot. Jari shows him how to crouch,gives him a couple tips for what weapons he should try to use and they respawn for a third match. 

They cheer into their headsets when Whiskey gets his first kill. Jari pushes him, shoving playfully, throws his arm around Whiskey. Whiskey laughs a small smile. 

“Alright Quiet Guy!” Shevs laughs. 

So that’s how Whiskey and Jari bond. Whiskey gets home from his run at around 10 in the morning and more often than not Jari is sitting on the couch, Jari tosses him a controller and Whiskey sits down and plays. Jari explains the controls to him, and Whiskey’s always way worse than everyone else, but the chirps are good natured. It doesn’t really fit too well in his “AHL” as punishment plan. But it’s nice, it really is. 

Whiskey and Jari get home late on Saturday, their fourth and final pre-season game ended in a loss but Jari scored, Whiskey got the assist and it was a decent effort for the pre-season, so neither one is really messed up about it. 

Jari yawns. 

“I’m fuckin’ wiped,” he says. 

Whiskey nods. 

“See ‘ya in the morning,” Whiskey says. 

“No doubt,” Jari says. 

He heads to his own room, which is on the opposite side of the apartment from Whiskey, the living room and kitchen in between them. Whiskey’s sore, but nothing he can’t deal with. He takes a hot shower and stretches a little bit on the floor. It’s about maintenance until the season is over. He can accumulate a couple little injuries here and there, but nothing that will take him out for surgery, that might be the end. He takes his vitamins, which is more for the ritual of it than any actual health benefits at this point. He eats well enough that it doesn’t matter. 

And then he calls Kent. Holds his breath until Kent answers. 

“Right on time,” Kent says in lieu of a greeting. 

“Huh?” Whiskey says. 

“You always call me three hours after the game, like almost exactly.”

“Huh,” Whiskey says, “I never noticed.”

“Good thing you have me to notice things for you,” Kent says. 

“Are you home?” Whiskey asks. 

“Yeah,” he says, “I didn’t play tonight. I feel so old when they talk about resting me. But it makes sense for a pre-season game.”

“Whatever it takes to keep you playing,” Whiskey says, and means it. 

Kent laughs, “So getting AHLtv to work is a bitch and a half,” Kent says because Whiskey’s games will hardly ever be on TV, definitely not in Quebec, “So I only saw the third.”

“It was kind of a half-assed game anyway.”

“You’ve never half-assed hockey in your life.”

“Just the pre-season,” Whiskey says. 

Kent laughs. 

“How’s the roommate?” Kent asks. 

“It’s going alright,” Whiskey says, “Nice enough. I think I’m bad at making friends.”

“You’re a delight,” Kent says. 

“You have to say that,” Whiskey mumbles. 

“It’s true,” Kent says. 

Whiskey sighs. 

“Are you alright? I’m joking but if you’re actually-”

“No,” Whiskey cuts him off, “Everything’s okay, s’just… not where I thought I’d be right now.”

“Is Grand Rapids nice at least?” Kent knows Whiskey wasn’t talking about his physical location but he asks anyway. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “It’s actually really nice. Winter’s gonna suck, but for now it’s good.”

“I’m glad,” Kent says, “What about the team?”

“Yeah, it’s… I think they’re all right. Jari’s… he’s a nice enough guy.” He pauses, “I miss you. 

He has a double bed, only uses one side of it. 

“Baby I’m so proud of you,” Kent says.

Whiskey doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t think he’s done anything worth being proud of. He just doesn’t say anything. There’s a pause, it’s awkward in a way it hardly ever is with Kent. 

“So uh, any other news?” Kent says. 

“It’s been pretty boring. You know me,” Whiskey says with a shrug. 

“You’re not boring, you like a routine.”

“Which is boring,” Whiskey says. 

Kent laughs, Whiskey joins. He yawns. 

“I should let you sleep,” Kent says, “M’tired too, it’s okay.”

“Alright,” Whiskey says. 

“I love you,” Kent says. 

“Love you too,” Whiskey answers. 

He falls asleep without even turning his lamp off, he’s out the second his head hits the pillow. He feels like he has his eyes closed for about five minutes when he hears. 

“YOOOOO HOLY SHIT!” Jari’s voice from across the apartment. He hears Jari’s door slam open, hears Jari tear through the living room to Whiskey’s door and knock. 

“What the fuck!” Whiskey shouts, he looks over at his alarm clock, “It’s two a.m. dude.”

“Check your phone Q!” Whiskey doesn’t remember when  _ Quiet Guy  _ became Q, but he likes it better. 

Whiskey rolls over, grumbles, “In the morning!” he says. 

His door opens, he looks up at Jari standing in his doorframe wearing his boxers and nothing else, phone in hand, wild look in his eyes. 

“We got a call up bro,” Jari says, “Tonight.”

Whiskey bolts up, turns on his phone, “Are you serious?”

“For a pre-season game, the old guys are sitting out, but still, it’s a shot.”

“Holy fuck,” Whiskey says, he reads his text messages, and sure enough, his and Jari’s name are on the roster for tonight’s exhibition in Detroit. 

“They want us there for the morning skate,” Jari says. 

“Fuck, when’s that,” Whiskey rubs the sleep out of his eyes. 

“Noon,” Jari says.

“Who have you been talking to?”

“Talia, guess she’s in charge of flights and shit, it’ll be nice to see her again,” Jari winks, “Chick rocks a pencil skirt.”

Whiskey rolls his eyes. 

“Creep,” he mumbles. 

Jari shrugs. 

“Can you wake me up when your alarm goes off, we have to be at the airport at 9.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, he yawns, “Holy shit,” he says. 

“Holy shit,” Jari agrees. 

Whiskey, to his own credit, is really good at falling asleep when he knows he has to. It’s just another one of the ways he’s trained his body for hockey. He goes back to sleep and he wakes up five minutes before his alarm at 6 like always. 

His name is on the back of a red wings jersey somewhere. Jari’s too, which is cool for him. It’s just an exhibition game, he knows he doesn’t get the call-up if it’s a real game. But it’s NHL ice. With NHL players against another NHL team. It’s proof that he’s getting better, that someone thinks he is. 

His alarm goes off and he gets out of bed. He won’t run this morning. He’s still sore from last night’s game so he shakes out his shoulders, stretches his arms over his head. He sends a text to Kent. 

**Whiskey:** **you might want to watch the wings game tn ;)**

Kent doesn’t answer right away, he won’t be up for another hour on a day off. Whiskey puts on a pair of sweats and a hoodie and walks across the living room to bang on Jari’s door. He opens it a crack to make sure he’s up.

Jari groans, “Fuck off.”

“You told me to wake you up,” Whiskey says

“I know,” Jari groans more, “Not you fuck off, just… morning fuck off.”

Whiskey snorts and leaves Jari to his own devices. He’ll make coffee, eat breakfast and by then, maybe Jari will have gotten out of bed. 

It occurs to him, while the coffee’s brewing, that he’s gotten used to Jari, maybe even learned to like him. He wouldn’t say they’re all friends. But Whiskey has a roommate and Fish and Shevy are definitely good teammates at the very least with all the video games they play together. It’s an interesting development that he doesn’t have time to think about because Jari shuffles into the kitchen and takes the coffee pot off of Whiskey’s hands and pours himself a cup. 

“Tired?” Whiskey asks. 

“How do you get up this early every day.”

“Discipline,” Whiskey answers. 

“You got any to spare, Q?” Jari deadpans. 

“Dunno if it’s transferrable.”

Whiskey has a backpack on the plane since they’re getting flown in and then back out after the game, doesn’t need anything other than a change of clothes once he takes off his suit. There are four other guys from the team on the plane, Mickey a career AHLer who’s a fan favourite, two swedish guys who seem to know Jari because he calls them Chippy and Sticks, the last is a young looking guy, can’t be more than 20, he’s quiet and Whiskey ends up sitting across from him. 

“They’re still finalizing the roster’s, you know,” Jari leans over a row of seats to say to Whiskey and the kid, (Tyler, Whiskey has now learned). 

“What’s that mean?” Tyler asks, “Like, for us?”

“It means, my friend, that  _ we  _ have an opportunity, are you ready for it?” 

Tyler’s face goes pale. 

Whiskey rolls his eyes, “Don’t scare the kid.”

“Might be the only shot we get this season. All I’m saying,” Jari shrugs.

Jari winks and Whiskey and Whiskey rolls his eyes. Leans over and tries to take a power nap. 

He wakes up to a new text as the plane touches down in detroit half an hour later. 

**Kent:** **seriously?**

 **Kent:** **i just checked twitter, holy shit!**

 **Kent:** **you have no idea how proud i am**

 **Kent:** **do you want to call before the game. Are you nervous?**

Whiskey looks down at his phone as he picks up his backpack. He sees Jari and Tyler already walking towards him. 

**Whiskey:** **I think i just need to focus. Talk tonight <3**

Whiskey shoves his phone into his pocket. 

“I still don’t believe this guy doesn’t get mad chicks,” Jari says, “You’re always on your phone and you want me to believe you’re not texting girls.”

“Don’t you have a girlfriend, Q?” Chippy asks.

“Uh,” Whiskey says. 

“Complicated.”

“Always is,” Sticks lets out a low whistle as they deplane. 

The Wings arena is bigger, nicer, newer than the one in Grand Rapids. He’s never been here, and he’s pretty sure he’s the only one. Even Tyler seems to know how to get to the player’s lounge. 

Morning skate is already starting and since their arrival was sort of last minute, an assistant coach tells them to throw on their gear and join in for the last half hour. It’s nothing too intense since they’ll be playing and no one wants to get worn out. But Whiskey gives everything his all. He’s either on all the way or not at all and he knows the coaches are watching him. His edges are clean, his hands sharp. He’s fast and strong in equal measure and he smiles like it’s easy, opening his mouth to chirp Jari over a missed shot. Even the chirp is calculated. He makes it clear that it’s friendly so anyone watching would think he’s not too soft but not an asshole either. He wants them to believe he can do this as much as everyone around him seems to. They finish the skate by taking shots on one of the Wings’ backup goalies. Chowder was one of the best goalies in the NCAA but an NHL goalie is a new challenge. Whiskey only scores once. He makes a mental note to spend extra time working on his shot. 

The team puts the AHL guys up in a hotel so they can fly them home in the morning. Whiskey rooms with Jari. It’s fine, chill. He doesn’t mind Jari as much as he thought he would. It does mean that he can’t call Kent. He sighs. He’ll find somewhere quiet after the game. 

The game. He’s trying not to think too hard about it. .

It comes. It comes no matter how freaked out it makes him. He doesn’t have much of a reason to freak out, doesn’t need on though. Tonight’s roster consists of younger depth players on the NHL roster and better players from the AHL roster, the other team is doing the same thing. 

He walks through the arena a few hours before the game is supposed to start.The day hasn’t felt real. There’s a jersey waiting for him in his stall.  _ Whisk 64,  _ his number is taken, so he just rolls with what they assign him. He can work with 64. 

He just rolls with everything. He has to. He can't seem too friendly but he can’t seem too distant. Doesn’t want to seem like a try-hard but he wants to seem like he’s trying hard. He sticks with Jari and the other Griffins, sits next to them in the locker room. None of the stars are playing tonight, all of them opted for rest so it’s the Red Wings bottom six forwards, their second and third pairing defenders and the AHL call-ups. Still, Whiskey’s in the same room as NHLers, he’s about to be in a strategy meeting with a 25 year veteran NHL head coach. 

And it’s weird, that he still gets nervous about this stuff. He went to training camp with most of these guys, he’s stayed in the same hotel as them. Jack Zimmermann showed up to his college games, not to mention his living legend of a boyfriend. He should be over the nerves by now. But he’s not. The standards are set high. 

They keep Whiskey and Jari together, they play well. The coach warns the AHL guys that this won’t be easy and Jari just shrugs, he has the air of someone who’s been here before, because he has. Whiskey tries to mirror his ease and his charm, he just feels cocky. 

He doesn’t get to tape a stick, because both his sticks are already taped and he doesn’t want to ask one of the equipment managers if he can re-tape one of them. That’s the kind of thing that gets you labeled difficult. 

Whiskey doesn’t take the first faceoff like he’s used to doing at Samwell, like he has been with the Griffs. He has to get used to starting games on the bench, still, he doesn’t like it. Whiskey’s leg bounces on the bench, Jari looks over at him. He sees Tyler jump over the boards for his shift. It’s back and forth at first, sloppy as both teams get into things. 

The most solid thing in his life is always going to be the ice under his skates. The NHL is fast. So is Whiskey, he can keep up, but it’s not a sure thing, it’s not easy anymore. College hockey is hard, but he never doubted that he could do it. Here it’s a question. Here every shift on the ice is an opportunity. The longer he goes without scoring, the longer he’s going to be uneasy. He wants a goal and he wants it in his first shift. 

The Red Wings defender stands behind their own net, he stickhandles slightly, Jari yells for a pass and the defender sends it his way as the other team is still changing. He starts the breakout. He’s slow but he moves easily, Whiskey feels quick, but jerky. 

Instincts take over and Whiskey shouts for a pass, he puts up his elbow, nudge one of the other teams forwards. Jari passes to Whiskey. The forward is on him immediately, trying to poke the puck away, so Whiskey drops a pass back to his defender. He gained the zone at least, made a smart play to maintain possession. Those are points in his favour, but they want goals. The Wings are a team that needs goals. Whiskey positions himself in front of the net, he might get a deflection goal from this position, but at the very least he’s a useful screen. There’s a defenseman standing right in front of him, trying to shove Whiskey out of the way. He’s strong but Kent’s workouts have been paying off and Whiskey stands his ground. There’s a grunt. Jari’s trying to move around the hasmarks, trying to find a shot. Passing to Whiskey would be a dumb idea, so he doesn’t. 

Jari takes the shot, Whiskey watches the puck, keeps his stick out of the way. The goaltender goes down but Whiskey can’t see the puck so he tries to get his stick involved. The whistle hasn’t gone yet it’s fair game. The whistle blows. Goalie has the puck in his glove. Whiskey groans. 

If he was grading himself, his first shift would get a C. Average, albeit mediocre. 

His second shift gets and F because there’s no third shift. 

Whiskey wins the faceoff at centre ice. Jari collects the puck and passes it back to Whiskey. Whiskey doesn’t have experience or the same level of talent as a lot of these guys, but he has speed, so he’ll use it. He takes off, the defenseman comes with him,in front of him, facing backwards. He tries to poke the puck away so Whiskey goes left. The defenseman stays with him, so Whiskey chips the puck up over the defenseman’s stick, it’s a nifty move that Tango taught him, he just has to chase the puck down afterwards. He does, or he tries. Because he’s falling to the ice with the puck just out of reach and he’s hitting the ice and it hurts and it’s hard but his momentum is carrying him, his arm catches on the goal post as he skids into the boards behind the net and he feels something tear. The impact of the boards sends a shock through his body and he needs to get up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone who keeps readin this!


	13. Going up flying, going home dying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does Whiskey get up?

Whiskey gets up. He’s not the kind of person who stays down, ever, not while the play’s still going. They’d have to peel his body off the ice for him to not get up. So he gets up and he grabs his stick, which is only a few inches away from him and he shakes his head when Jari shoots him a look of concern. 

Kent’s standing in the middle of his living room. The game is on the flatscreen, the Colorado Avalanche at the Detroit Red Wings. And Connor’s on the ice, laying face down on the ice. Kent stood up when he saw Whiskey’s breakaway, in anticipation of something amazing, ready to cheer. Instead he sees him fall, getting caught up in his own momentum, skidding past the net, knocking it off its moorings and slamming into the end boards. 

“And Whisk is down and he’s slow to get up, that looked like it hurt.”

Kent doesn’t realize but he has his hands over his mouth and he hasn’t taken a breath. He takes a shaky one. That can’t be it. This can’t be the story of Whiskey’s first game. 

Whiskey’s thinking the same thing, all the way in Detroit. He wants to tell a different story and that’s why he shrugs off the trainers when he gets back to the bench. 

“I’m good,” he says. 

Rotates his shoulder just to prove it. He’s glad he has a good poker face because it hurts to hold his hand above his head. The trainer seems satisfied, nods to the coach that Whiskey’s good to go. Whiskey smiles to himself, it probably looks more like a grimace, but he’s happy with himself. 

Whiskey plays the rest of the game not thinking about his shoulder. If he cuts that part of himself off in his mind, it’s like it’s not there. It’s like he can play through it. It’s fine, actually, he’s genuinely pretty sure he just overextended something, nothing a little physical therapy won’t fix. 

Ideally he’d be fixing it right now, but he has a game to finish. 

The AHL guys get limited ice time but Whiskey’s on the ice in the third. It’s been a high flying game, 6 goals total, score tied at 3-3 but Whiskey hasn’t been on the ice for anyone. On one hand, good, he hasn’t done anything dumb to allow a goal, on the other hand, bad, he hasn’t done anything smart to help score a goal. 

The coach throws his line out on the ice with ten minutes left. Tyler and Jari are out there with him. Tyler doesn’t usually play on Whiskey’s line for the Griffins, but Whiskey’s gotten to know the way Jari plays over the past couple months. He’s slow, but fluid. He waits, sometimes a second too long before making a play and he has a shoot-first mentality most of the time. He has decent hands but there’s nothing fancy about his game. He’s like a blank slate of a player, the default setting in a video game. He’s smooth. As good a winger as he played with in college though. 

He had pins and needles in his arm through the first, there was some sharp pain in the second, he asked for an advil during the intermission, it’s numb now as he holds his stick. It’s fine though. He’s fine. 

“Come on boys,” the coach says, “We all want to go home, let’s get a goal here,” he shouts. 

Whiskey doesn’t want to go home. He’d stay here forever if he could, skating around and around the ice. He’s tuning out the fans, tuning out everything that’s not hockey. He’s good at that, tuning out things that aren’t hockey, that is. The pain, the emotions, the people around him, when he’s on the ice, that all gets pushed to the back seat. He wishes it could be like that forever, just to do something so simple forever. 

Whiskey’s been doing everything right today. He hasn’t scored but he thinks this might be the best game of his life, from a hockey perspective. He feels good, even if he can feel the advil wearing off. His passes are perfect, he feels like he’s floating around the ice, like he’s always exactly where he needs to be. 

Jari’s pass hits the blade of his stick.He’s standing at the hash marks. Whiskey’s heart leaps, his instincts kick in. Whiskey swings around behind the net avoiding one of the defenesemen, he looks to the left, to the right, fakes left, darts right. The goaltender is looking right at him, he’s about four feet out from the net. He knows he has to be running out of time but he doesn’t look up at the score clock. He can feel the building squeezing in around him, the blood is rushing into his eardrums but he’s pretty sure he can feel the crowd screaming  _ SHOOT.  _ Whiskey doesn’t shoot. Not yet. He needs this to be perfect. He locks his eyes on the top corner of the net. His wrist shot is his best shot. He feels a twinge in his shoulder as he winds up, feels it get worse on the release. It feels red, hot, something gets worse, but the goal horn goes

His shoulder aches when he throws his hands in the air to celebrate his goal. He grins as Jari barrels into him, as Tyler wraps his arm around him and the defenseman slam the group of them into the boards. Whiskey looks up at the scoreboard. 1-0, Red Wings. It’s not a real NHL goal, he wasn’t playing against a real NHL team in a real NHL game. But he’s in the arena wearing the jersey and for the first time in a long time, he feels like he might get to score another. 

“Fucking rights Q!” Jari bellows. 

Tyler taps him on the back of the helmet and grins. 

Whiskey walks back to the dressing room feeling like he just won way more than the game. Someone hands him the puck that he scored with,  _ Whisk 64, NHL Exhibition Goal.  _ He’ll hold on to it until he gets the one that says  _ Whisk, first NHL goal.  _ There’s music in the dressing room and guys are pumped up. 

“Like what I saw from you, boys,” the coach says, “Whisk,” he points directly at Whiskey, he looks up, “Nice goal.”

The coach leaves and Jari dumps a water bottle on Whiskey’s head and the music gets cranked right back up. 

Ice water trickles down his back and Jari wraps his arms around him. 

Pain is part of it. He’s an athlete, pain has always been part of it. This is meant to hurt. The first time he put on skates when he was seven years old, it hurt, he got blisters all over his feet the first month of minor hockey, but he kept going. It’s supposed to hurt. The workouts hurt, lifting weights hurts, skating hurts. But it’s all supposed to be worth it. 

For this feeling right now, for the glee after a goal, the celebration. His shoulder hurts, but it’s so worth it. He can ignore it. 

Jari elbows him on the ride back to their hotel. Whiskey rooms with Jari which means that he only gets to text Kent before he goes to sleep. Kent tells him he’s proud, Whiskey tells him he won’t be proud of himself until it’s in a game that counts. Kent tells him he’ll get there. Whiskey might believe him. 

Jari notices Whiskey wincing as he takes off his dress shirt while they get ready for bed. 

“Shoulder?” Jari asks. 

Whiskey nods, “Just sore,” he shrugs and sits on top of the blankets on his bed and leans against the pillows. 

Whiskey hears Jari rooting around in his backpack, he throws a bottle of tylenol onto Whiskey’s bed, a bottle of advil follows. 

“Take two of each,” Jari says, “Works better than taking them separately.”

“And that’s fine?” Whiskey asks, he’s used to Samwell where he has to tell the trainers every time he takes an advil for a hangover just in case. 

“Yeah,” Jari shrugs. 

Whiskey tosses all four tablets into his mouth at once and washes it down with a water bottle. 

“Griffs game tomorrow night,” Jari smirks, “Might want to ask for something stronger,” he says. 

Whiskey groans, “How did I forget about the season opener.”

“Exciting night,” Jari shrugs, “You’re young, you’ll handle it.”

“You’re a year older than me,” Whiskey rolls his eyes and settles in to go to sleep. 

Whiskey wants to sleep until noon, and he probably would have let himself have at least a couple extra hours of sleep after the couple days he’s had and the day he’s about to have. Jari was right about the tylenol and advil though, it eases the pain enough that he can get to sleep. Staying asleep isn’t a problem, he’s tired somewhere deep in his bones. 

He doesn’t get to sleep until noon though, the courtesy call wakes them up at 7, flight leaves at 9 to get back to Grand Rapids by 10. They’ll have enough time to shower and pack their things, maybe squeeze in a nap and lunch before they have to be at the rink to get on the bus and head to Rockford. 

It’s overwhelming if he thinks too hard about it, so he doesn’t think about it. He just does it. He eats breakfast of several protein bars and half a bag of almonds and a bottle of gatorade on the plane. Jari stops for breakfast on the drive back to the apartment (McDonalds which Whiskey only lightly protests as Jari’s choice before setting for a breakfast wrap and a smoothie). Whiskey gets home and crashes on the couch. 

“I was half expecting you to go for a run,” Jari quips. 

“I’ll take today off, thanks,” Whiskey mumbles and leans against the arm of the couch while Jari turns on his console. Whiskey shakes his head when Jari offers him a controller. 

“How’s the shoulder ?” Jari asks. 

“Hurts like a bitch. Hurts more when I think about it. So shut the fuck up,” Whiskey says. 

Jari nods. 

Whiskey hears Jari talking to Fischer on his headset but he’s not really paying attention. He falls asleep at some point because he gets woken up by Jari punching him in the leg around three in the afternoon. 

“I figured you’d be pissed off if I let you sleep longer,” he says, “Also I got bagels.”

Whiskey finds an everything bagel with cream cheese, tomato, lettuce and bacon sitting on the kitchen counter and eats it. And he doesn’t think about his shoulder, because honestly, it’s not too bad if he doesn’t move it suddenly or the wrong way. Kent plays tonight, Whiskey remembers because they wouldn’t shut up about it on ESPN. It’s cause for celebration, he supposes, the expansion team, something worth noticing. 

**Whiskey:** Good luck tonight

 **Kent:** luck’s got nothing to do with it

 **Whiskey:** confident already, huh?

 **Kent:** you scored last night, I’m gonna score tonight, it’s a good omen

 **Whiskey:** so you’ll believe in good omens but not good luck???

 **Kent:** okay you got me there. 

**Whiskey:** i wish i could watch your game

 **Kent:** dw i’ll do something highlight worthy so you see it on twitter

 **Whiskey:** you know i don’t go on twitter

 **Kent:** i’ll text you the clip ;)

 **Kent:** or should i burn it onto a DVD and mail it to you?

 **Whiskey:** i can work imessage, thank you very much

 **Whiskey:** and twitter too for the record! I just don’t see the appeal

 **Kent:** can I call you tonight?

 **Whiskey:** won’t be back until late

 **Whiskey:** but if you want to stay up… 

**Kent:** of course I want to stay up

 **Whiskey:** I’ll text you when i get home

 **Kent:** How are you?

 **Whiskey:** tired

 **Kent:** what about that fall you took in the first? Looked bad from my angle

 **Whiskey:** I’m just sore. 

Whiskey’s quite a bit more than sore but he can handle it

**Kent:** Okay

 **Kent:** Talk to you tonight, I have to head out

 **Kent:** love you

 **Whiskey:** love you too

“Who you talkin’ to bro?” Jari asks, he walks into the kitchen. Whiskey’s sliding his phone into his back pocket, he jumps. 

“The girlfriend you won’t tell us about?”

Whiskey can feel his cheeks turning pink. 

“You wheeling someone them? Come on, man, I want the dirty details.”

“It’s nothing,” Whiskey says, then he decides to tack on, “Just some chick.”

Some small part of himself sinks to the pit of his stomach as he lies to Jari, but another part of himself gets a lot lighter. Because Jari just smirks and shrugs and elbows Whiskey in the shoulder that’s not sore and it’s just so much easier this way. 

Rockford is only a 45 minute bus ride away so most of the guys just wear their suits on the bus. They get there in time for the game. Of the teams in the AHL, Whiskey can admit that he got lucky with where he ended up. The Griffs rink is a hell of a lot nicer than the one in Rockford, it’s newer at the very least. 

But ice is ice and he takes his warmup and doesn’t think about anything other than the game at hand. And he feels good, not great, but good. He took a tylenol on the bus and an advil before he got on the ice. He’s tired but he’s played tired before, sore but he’s played sore before. 

He feels good in the team strategy meeting and he feels good in the locker room while he tapes his socks in place. He feels good during the national anthem and when he wins the faceoff and he feels fucking incredible when he scores his first career American Hockey League goal in the third period. He feels good when they win and good in the locker room immediately after. 

“Let’s gooooooo!” Fischer shouts when they walk into the locker room. 

Shevs slaps him on the shoulder, Whiskey winces. The grimace is obvious enough that Shevs gives him a strange look. 

“Threw something last night,” Whiskey shrugs. 

“Give you anything for it?” Fischer asks. 

“I’ve been taking advil,” Whiskey shrugs. 

“You’re an absolute stud, Whisk!” Someone else shouts. 

“Hey, c’mon, Shevs scored first,” Whiskey shakes his head, happy to stop talking about his shoulder. 

“Not on triple back to back,” 

Whiskey shrugs like it’s not a big deal. It is a big deal, feels like a big deal. He’s sore like it’s a big deal.

“I’m buying every single one of your drinks next time we go out,” the captain, Robbie Turner points at Whiskey. 

They have a standing reservation at a bar downtown after home games. Turner goes every week along with a group of career AHL veterans. He knows it makes him sound like a douchebag, but he really hopes he never learns what it’s like to be a regular at that bar. 

He wants to sleep on the bus back to Grand Rapids but he can’t get comfortable enough in his seat. He settles for closing his eyes and leaning back. 

“You heading to bed?” Jari asks when he opens the front door. 

Whiskey yawns and then nods as he shuffles into the living room. Jari heads to his own room. He feels like a zombie as he shrugs off his sweatpants and hoodie, hangs his suit up in his closet and collapses face first into bed. He thinks he maybe gets to sleep, or he’s about to fall asleep, but he feels his phone buzz underneath of him. He pulls his phone out. Sees the text messages, remembers Kent. 

“Fuck,” he says out loud. 

He looks at the time, it’s nearly 2. 

**Kent:** **hey, u home yet?**

 **Kent:** **idk how far rockford is from grand rapids, are you good?**

Whiskey hits the call button immediately, it rings before Whiskey gets Kent’s voicemail. 

**Whiskey:** **I’m so fucking sorry**

 **Whiskey:** **I got home and passed out without thinking**

 **Whiskey:** **I’ll call in the morning, I promise.**

Kent sees the messages pop up one by one, reads them without opening them. He’s trying. They’re both trying. It sucks. He doesn’t live downtown like he did in Vegas. He got a house in a suburb, a 20 minute drive from the rink. He couldn’t help thinking about where Whiskey’s things would go when he was moving in. He still believes deep down that they’re going to make this work, that Whiskey’s going to make it here and claim the drawer on his side of the bed. 

Kent doesn’t answer Whiskey because he wants Whiskey to go to sleep. That’s what he tells himself at least. He stays on the couch where he’s been all night. Kit’s beside him. It’s late at night that Kent lets himself indulge in his most pathetic forms of self pity. He has a playlist full of bittersweet love songs and a folder filled with photos of his boyfriend. Songs with lyrics like, _I don't wanna miss you like this, come back, be here,_ photos from the summer, a selfie they took in a golf cart, a picture of Whiskey sitting by the edge of someone’s pool, shirt off, beer in hand, smiling, he didn’t know Kent was taking the picture, _Love is the answer, at least for most of the questions in my heart Like why are we here? And where do we go? And how come it's so hard?_ A video of Whiskey skating over the summer when they trained together, Whiskey trips over his own skates and Kent hears his own laugh as he rushes to Whiskey’s side. The phone gets pushed aside but Kent knows Whiskey had kissed him in that moment. _Won't you ever come back? Ever come back to me?_ Kent finds a picture from the Christmas they spent together, Kit in a Santa hat held up between the two of them as Kent took a selfie of them grinning in front of Kent’s two foot tall Christmas tree. _Time moves slow, When half of your heart has yet to come home._ Kent feels a tear roll down his cheek when he swipes to a picture of the two of them in bed in Vegas. Kent remembers taking it because the light coming in the window made Whiskey look like he was made of gold. Whiskey’s face is buried in Kent’s side. He can practically hear him groaning like he does every morning, he can feel his stubble grazing his skin. 

“Don’t judge me,” he says to Kit, she’s sitting on the other side of the couch with her head turned to the side. She crawls across the couch slowly, settles beside Kent and rests her head on top of his thigh. 

“We’ll see him soon,” Kent says like it’s Kit who needs the reassurance. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the same week that i wrote a chapter about whiskey hurting his shoulder... i dislocated my own shoulder and I am Grumpy About It. thanks for reading! also do not take medical advice from any of these dumb hockey players


	14. If I need a pick me up would you come and pick me up?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> QC is working out for Kent Parson and the New Look Nordiques

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is many an oc in this chapter but they'll be important later on also i'm lame and making up cool hockey players is fun. title from bud like you by ajr

Kent has always stayed a couple extra minutes after his media availabilities to answer questions from french media. He did it when he was in Vegas the times they were in the playoffs and the reporters from Montreal showed up and he keeps up the habit in Quebec City. 

Today is one of the days he wishes he could just pretend he didn’t understand what the hell they were saying. 

«Marcel Dionne, NordsNation.com» one of the reporters introduces himself. 

Kent smiles goodnaturedly. He has his snapback on backwards, leaning back in his seat after a loss. 

«Kent, what do you think this loss signifies for the team»

Kent has to take a second. Doing English media is easier, obviously, because he can usually summon just the right amount of charm and snark in a split second, in French it takes him a couple extra seconds. 

«Well, euhhh, » Kent says «I guess it means everyone loses eventually»

There’s a buzz of laughter in the room. It’s been a month since their home opener and this is their first loss. It was a blowout though, 7-2 and Kent’s ready for some dumb think pieces. 

«Do you think this loss is more indicative of what this team is than the first dozen or so games? »

«No,» Kent answers simply. 

«How do you assess your own play tonight?»

«I would have liked to score, but you know, there’s only so much you can do on any given night. I like to think I tried»

«You're playing your old team tomorrow night, how are you preparing for that»

«Same way I prepare for any back to back. Solid eight hours, rehydrate, re-fuel, focus on the task at hand. Try and play good hockey»

«But you played for one team for so long, is it going to be strange seeing that jersey on the other end of the ice»

«Won’t know until I see it.» he says, «All I know is they’re a good team with a great new captain. It’s a challenge, no doubt, but I’m looking forward to it.» 

«Thank you,» Kent says, effectively ending his media availability. He smiles and nods at everyone. 

It’s not his worst press conference, not by a long stretch but he would have rather been laying face down in a puddle of water than been there. He checks his phone. Whiskey has a game but he checks for texts just in case. 

“Eyyy Parson,” Kent hears one of his teammates calling from down the hall, “You get some more good boy media points,” Kent knows that he’s only joking, so he just laughs it off. 

There’s an ease with this team that he never felt when he was in Vegas. For all intents and purposes, Gordon Robertson should be intimidating. He’s big and grizzly looking. He has a gold tooth from when he got into a fight back in the late 90s and got some free dental work. He’s the kind of guy Kent would have jumped out of the way for at the beginning of his career. Someone he never would have talked to. 

But Gordon, “just call me Bobby,” Roberts is fucking hilarious and he likes to give his teammates a hard time and Kent would call him a friend. He put in hard time in Toronto before they exposed him in the expansion draft. Kent respects him, but because he’s earned it, not because Kent’s afraid. 

He walks into the players lounge where a handful of players are still hanging out. Barnesy and Jonesy, the top pair defensemen are on the floor using foam rollers on their calves. The team skews older, slightly injury prone. There are a lot of guys looking for second chances, exposed in the draft for one reason or another. Barnesy had partied too much during his ELC in Pittsburgh, Jonesy had similar problems in Philadelphia, though there’s a rumour he slept with someone’s wife which really made things weird in the locker room. Kent’s not sure how true it is, he doesn’t think he wants to know. 

He likes the pair of them, they played for the same junior team in the WHL and he’s pretty sure they’re currently in a prank war with one of the equipment managers and the head athletic therapist. Kent, to be frank, couldn’t care less if Jonesy had fucked someone’s wife when he was 20, as long as nothing happens here. 

Bobby’s just old. And there are a handful of guys that fall into that category on the “New Look Nordiques,” as Claude Ouelette of Nordiquesnation.com had decided to call them. Bobby came from Toronto, he’s slow but he can still pass like it’s nobody’s business, Danny LaFleur bounced around the California teams, won a cup with the Kings, had a nice condo in San Jose, blew out his knee, thought about retiring and ended up here. 

There’s Mickey “Mouse” Howard, one of the draft picks who’d been good enough to play this season rather than get sent down to the farm team. He’s a good kid, dumbest guy Kent’s ever met, but his heart’s in the right place and he plays like he’s seven feet tall every night, even though he’s more like 5’8”. 

And then there’s Snowy. When Kent heard that the Nords were making the move to acquire Snowy just after the preseason had wrapped up, the first thing he did was text Jack.  _ How likely is my new goalie to hold a grudge,  _ he’d asked. He has a photographic memory for every fight he’s ever been in, every guy he’s ever pissed off.  _ Who Snowy? No, he’s a good guy.  _ Snowy had shaken his hand the first game he showed up for practice in Quebec City, silently agreeing to let old rivalries die. 

Kent hadn’t realized how uncomfortable he had been in Vegas until he learned what comfortable actually felt like. It’s only been a month, he thinks, still time for things to go horribly wrong. 

He grabs his hoodie from the back of the couch where he left it. Bobby stretches out. 

“I gotta head out,wife wants me to read to the girls before they go to sleep,” he announces to the room. 

“Whipped!” Barnesy shouts. 

“She’s got you on a leash, Bobby,” Jonesy joins in. 

“And what about it,” Bobby smirks, he slings his backpack over his shoulder. 

Jonesy and Barnesy mumble something, but Bobby just gives them an amused but dismissive smile. 

“How are the kids?” Mouse asks. 

“See, Mouse knows how to ask a nice fuckin’ question,” Bobby walks over to Jonesy and Barnesy and flicks them lightly on the back of the head, “The kids are fucking spectacular,” He answers Mouse, “Emily’s real smug about how she was right to put them in French Immersion in Toronto. But they’re doing good.”

Mouse just smiles and nods. Kent is pretty sure the kid’s never had a thought in his head longer than a sentence. 

“Parson,” Bobby says before he leaves, quietly while they’re both standing near the door, “You should come for dinner some time, or are you gonna give me a a lame excuse again. Em wants to meet you and I know the girls would like you..”

“I’ll uh-.”

For all the shit Jonesy and Barnesy talk about how they’re “wheeling a different babe every night of the week,” most of Kent’s new teammates are in really happy relationships. That’s to be expected when you have a bunch of old guys on a team, but even Mouse, who’s only 19, is absolutely head over heels for his high school sweetheart. 

There were married guys in Vegas, but Kent got the impression that none of them actually  _ liked  _ spending time with their wives. Bobby and Mouse and Danny never shut up about their girls. It’s nice, not to be the only guy head over heels for someone. 

“Actually, uh, do you have a second,” Kent chews on the inside of his cheek, “Just to talk, real quick,” he says. 

Bobby’s a good dude, he’d been an A in Toronto, he was part of their Hockey against Hate campaign a couple years ago, and if Kent’s going to be friends with him… well, he wants Bobby to be friends with every part of him. 

“Yeah, what’s up, dude?” Bobby leans against the wall. 

Kent jerks his head towards the hallway, walks out of earshot of the rest of the team. 

“So like, I know you think I’ve been blowing you off about dinner,” Kent says. Bobby’s been asking him to come over for at least the past two weeks. 

“Hey, Parser, it’s not a big deal, alright?”

“No,” Kent says, “but uh, I do want to meet your family, they seem great,” Kent swallows, “But I just want to make sure. Like, before you invite me over… fuck this is weird,” Kent runs his hand through his hair, “So, I’m gay,” Kent says, “And I wanted you to know that before we hung out as like bros or anything and I didn’t really tell guys in Vegas but this is a fresh start for me and all that so I wanted to be up front and-”

“Woah,” Bobby holds his hand up, “Parse, dude, you didn’t need to tell me all that.”

“It’s important, just that you know who I am and if you know who I am and still don’t want to hang out then that’s cool.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Bobby says, “You don’t have to justify anything to me, I’m glad you told me but I swear, it doesn’t matter.”

“Thanks,” Kent goes quiet. 

“If you were hoping this would get you out of dinner you better think again,” Bobby teases, “Thursday night, Em’s making cobbler.”

“I’ll be there,” Kent says

Bobby pats him on the shoulder, “You should get home, kid. Big game tomorrow.”

Kent nods. 

The thing is, Kent was out to two people in Vegas, three if you’re counting his agent. Swoops and Scraps. That’s it. He was never out to anyone who was older than him, never anyone who had any power over him. He won’t admit it out loud, but he was scared. Scared of what they’d do to him, maybe. But mostly scared of how it would affect the team, what it would do to chemistry and morale if everyone knew the ‘secret’ about their captain, about their first overall pick. But Kent’s not the only first overall pick on this team, Danny went first overall in 2003 and Mouse was third overall in this year’s draft. He walks to his car a little bit lighter on his feet.

Kent smiles to himself. He checks his phone again, just in case. 

Whiskey’s texts are fewer and further in between, there are some days where he falls asleep before they can call and say goodnight. Kent’s understanding, especially when it comes to hockey. He gets it. He tries to. 

He texts Whiskey from his couch, they play battleship over messenger.Kent checks the calendar they share, sees that Whiskey is probably on the back half of a four hour bus ride. Whiskey loses battleship because he always puts all of his ships right in the middle lined up back to back. It had worked the first few times and confused Kent, but it’s Whiskey’s only strategy and Kent’s got it figured out. 

He yawns and rubs his eyes when he gets a text from Whiskey right after Kent sank his battleship.

**Whiskey:** **:(**

 **Kent:** **do u want me to let u win next time, baby ;)**

 **Whiskey:** **that’ll just inflate your ego even more**

 **Kent:** **i thought u loved my ego**

 **Whiskey:** **your ego has its place**

 **Kent:** **oh? And that place isn’t when we’re playing battleship?**

 **Whiskey:** **one day i’ll beat you**

 **Kent:** **how’s the bus?**

 **Whiskey:** **tired as hell**

 **Whiskey:** **i’ll be home by 2. You should go to bed. Don’t wait up to talk to me**

 **Kent:** **you know i don’t mind staying up to talk to you**

 **Whiskey:** **you have a game tomorrow night. Sleep.**

 **Kent:** **okay. Talk soon.**

It weighs on him, how they used to talk every night. How he fell asleep to the sound of Whiskey’s voice more often than not. And how that doesn’t happen anymore. How it feels like there’s more than just distance between them now. If he had the words, he’d ask Whiskey what was going on. If there is something going on, because Kent doesn’t know that for sure that there even is. Whiskey could just be busy and Kent doesn’t want to look crazy. 

He opens snapchat and sends streaks to Swoops, Scraps and his little sister, looks at the Snap Map, he sees Whiskey’s bitmoji, it’s kind of comforting to be able to see the little cartoon version of his boyfriend, slowly moving down the highway back to Grand Rapids. 

Whiskey saw the trainer a week after he hurt himself. 

“It’s sore,” he finally admitted. 

She had nodded. It was a given that he would play through whatever this was. Hope it got better on its own. 

“It’s just hard to get to sleep sometimes, I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and it just hurts.”

“We can get you checked out by a doctor,” she said. 

Whiskey had shaken his head. 

They all understood. Whiskey can’t afford time off, not when he’s scratching and clawing his way to the NHL, not when things are just starting to look up. 

He takes the vicodin before bed, it makes him tired which is nice, but it also makes him wake up nauseous, which is less nice. What’s good though, is that he can play. And as long as he can play, he can keep acting like everything is good.

Kent plays against his old team on a Thursday night. The building is packed. Kent doesn’t pay attention to the media but he knows that they’ve been building this game up since the schedule went out. 

This is his building, his turf, his team. But that’s his old team. He walked past one of the trainers who’d been in Vegas since Kent had gotten there while he was walking around earlier today. He had nodded a polite hello.

“Are you nervous, Parse?” Mouse asks, he couldn’t be blunter if he tried. 

Kent finishes tying his skates and shakes his head. He has plans to go out for drinks 

with Scraps provided nothing too intense happens tonight. 

“Just another game, right?” he says. 

He catches Bobby looking at him out of the corner of his eye, a slight and almost imperceptible nod.

Kent leads the team out for warmup. He doesn’t know when they started doing that, but it’s become a habit for Kent to be the first out onto the ice. He had asked Snowy if he wanted to go first a couple games back, but Snowy insists on never being first or last out of the gate. 

So Kent goes first and he knocks the pyramid of pucks off the board and onto the ice and scoops one up. Snowy slides back and forth in his crease. Kent flips a puck towards him and Snowy catches it on the blade of his stick, another habit. 

The music is pumping through the arena as fans file in. There are some fans standing at the glass holding up signs. One with Snowy’s face on it with a bunch of paper snowflakes taped to it, another held up by a group of young looking women for Mouse. 

Kent spots one that says, “It’s my first hockey game and my favourite player is Kent Parson,” what it lacks in originality it makes up for in glitter. 

He finishes taking his shots on goal and comes to a stop in front of the young kid holding the sign. 

Kent waves at her and she lights up. She jumps up and down at the glass and waves to him. It’s one of those rare times where he doesn’t have to remind himself to smile. Getting to play hockey is the best part of his job, but being able to make someone look that genuinely happy just by looking at them is a pretty close second. 

“You want a picture?” He mouths through the glass and mimes a camera. 

Her eyes go wide and she nods. Kent stands with a smile on his face as her dad takes a couple of pictures. 

He flashes her a thumbs up as he skates off the ice. 

“Fuckin’ good guy, Kent Parson, at it again,” Barnesy chirps as he skates past him. 

“You’re just mad no one ever brings you a sign,” Jonesy elbows his defense partner. 

Kent stretches near the blue line, which is the first time he lets himself look down the ice at the Aces.

The red and black at the other end doesn’t feel as wrong as he thought it would, but when he looks down at his own sky blue jersey it starts to sink in. The men on the other side of the ice aren’t on his team anymore. A lot of them never were. They have a new goalie, for one thing, a call-up from the minors, Carly is gone, Swoops is gone. He looks down at his own chest and there’s no letter. He scans the Aces’ end for Scraps, sees him talking to the new goalie. The red C is on his chest now. He earned it, if the Aces have a future, Kent thinks it’s Scraps who’s going to take them through it. 

He notices the rest of the Nordiques getting off the ice and he gets up, Bobby taps him on the back of the shins with his stick. Kent’s the last one off the ice, Snowy also refuses that responsibility. 

Scraps isn’t a centre and he’s also on the Aces’ second line, Kent’s on the ice with him but he neve takes a faceoff against him. He watches him though, every now and then out of the corner of his eye. He watches Scraps talking to a rookie in the second, and wonders, not for the first time, if leaving was the right decision after all. 

What was the point of it anyway? He’s in a new city, he still can’t speak french well enough that shopkeepers don’t just default to english when he tries to order something. He’s wearing a new jersey. His best friend is five hours away by car. And to top it all of, he’s alone. Whiskey was supposed to be here. His things were supposed to be in his drawers, he was supposed to leave puddles in the bathroom and burn dinner and let Kent use his thighs as a pillow when they sat on the couch. 

And he’s not here, and Kent feels like he took of the Aces jersey for no reason. 

“Parson! Watch out!” 

Kent looks up just in time to see the puck flying towards his face. 

The next thing he knows, he’s on the ice holding onto his face, blood dripping out of his mouth, he makes a noise somewhere between,  _ “augh”  _ and  _ “unf” _

He hears the whistle blow and Mouse is at his side immediately. It was an accident, even in the moment, Kent can realize that. Kent was defending the net and one of the Aes took a shot, it deflected off of one of the sticks in the lane and Kent was just unlucky and just unfocused enough to take it to the mouth. He spits his mouthguard out along with a not insignificant amount of blood. 

“Do you need help up?” Mouse asks. 

Kent shakes his head and gets to his knees on his own, but Mouse offers his arm anyway. Kent takes it as he gets to his feet. 

“I can kick his ass,” Bobby says when Kent gets back to the bench. 

Kent shakes his head, “Accident,” he says. 

He knows they aren’t going to let him stay out so he follows the trainer down the tunnel without any protest. 

He sits him down in his stall in the dressing room. He asks him the standard questions. 

“Tell me what happened?”

“Got hit in the face with a puck,” Kent sneers. He can still taste his own blood. 

“What’s the date?”

“October 13th.”

“Who’s the prime minister?”

“Fuck, what is this, my Canadian citizenship test?” Kent quips. 

The trainer rolls his eyes, but smiles. 

“Sarcasm’s still working then,” he says. 

He has a pair of purple gloves on. 

“Open your mouth for me,” he says. 

Kent does as he’s told and lets the guy poke around at his teeth and at his jaw. 

“You got lucky, you better thank that mouthguard of yours.” 

It turns out that most of the blood came from his bottom lip which is split open. 

“I’ll get the doc to stitch you up,” the trainer says. 

Kent nods, “Thanks.”

“And before you ask, I doubt he lets you back out for the third, you’re already winning.”

Kent tries to pout by sticking his lip out but it hurts so bad that he just decides it’s not worth the fight. 

They take him into another room to get stitched up, he can hear the team coming in after the second, he wants to be there, but he knows there are other games, knows this is going to be fine. 

“Well that fucking hurt,” Kent says when it’s finally over. 

Doc Brown (Who’s last name is actually Bronte, but the team thinks it’s funny to call him Doc Brown) smirks at Kent.

“Well Jeremy was right that you’re sense of humour survived.”

He takes off his gloves and takes one last look at the stitches. 

“I can write you a prescription for some painkillers if it hurts too much.”

“Nah,” Kent says, “I don’t fuck with that shit, advil’s fine.”

Doc Brown has the extra strength advil. Kent pops two and by the time he’s stitched up, the third has already started. He figures he might as well shower and get dressed. So he takes his time. To his credit, he only thinks about how pathetic the fact that he got hurt while yearning for his boyfriend on the ice was for like ten of the twenty minutes of the third period. The other ten minutes he spends trying to shower without getting shampoo on his face. He watches his own dried blood wash down the drain and sighs. 

He’s had worse injuries, but none from being distracted like that. It’s a one off, first time he played his old team, it was bound to be weird. The question still looms over his head,  _ was this worth it?  _

“Parser!” Mouse is the first one into the dressing room after the. 

“You alright, kid?” Bobby asks. 

They all gather around him instead of heading to their own stalls and celebrating the win. 

Kent nods, “Busted lip.”

“Lucky break,” Barnesy says, Kent hears a sigh of relief in his voice. 

“Don’t know what we’d do without you, bud,” Jonesy agrees. 

“Do you think it’ll leave a scar?” Mouse asks. 

“Hope not,” Kent says. 

“He’s nothing without his pretty face,” Snowy says it without any malice and with a grin on his face. 

Kent just rolls his eyes, “Okay, eyeliner.”

“I told you I just have naturally thick eyelashes.”

“Hey, I’m not judging, it’s a good look, Snow,” Bobby says. 

Danny’s standing behind Bobby, nods a quiet agreement. 

“I’m just glad you’re good,” he puts his hand on Kent’s shoulder. 

“Don’t let me hold you up, let’s get out of here as soon as possible.”

The media starts to file into the locker room, they all want Kent, which he was expecting. He answers their questions, tells them he’ll be fine, says that yeah it was a little weird playing the Aces but they got through it mostly in one piece (haha). 

His teammates surround him once again when the media leaves. 

“You need a ride home, kid?” Gordo offers. 

“I live closer, I can drive him,” Danny says. 

“Barnesy and I already carpool,” Jonesy points out. 

“Woah,” Kent holds up his hand, “They cleared me to play, no head issues, I can drive just fine.”

He remembers a time back in Vegas, it was before Scraps was there and Swoops was out with the flu and Kent sprained his ankle late in the third period. His entire team had avoided him like the plague. Not a single word said to their 19 year old captain as he got his ankle wrapped by a trainer. The team doctor drove him home, none of his teammates offered. 

“You’ve got stitches,” Mouse points out. 

“Yeah, I fucking noticed,” Kent says, snappier than is warranted. 

“I’m just saying,” Mouse mumbles.

“Sorry, that sounded mean,” Kent says. 

“I’ll drive you home,” Mouse says, “I don’t have kids to say good night to and Barnesy and Jonesy live downtown,” he says it like it’s settled and Kent doesn’t have time to put up a fight before their coach is walking in, Robert St. Marie. He’s followed by one of the assistants, Rebecca Ryder. She glances at Kent, then at Robert. 

“That was a good game we pulled out, boys,” he says and then claps his hands decisively, in the loud startling way that hockey coaches seem to be taught to master, “How’s the face, Parson?” He asks. 

“Not nearly as pretty as it was this morning,” Jonesy laughs out. 

Everyone laughs, Kent included. 

“Becks can drive you home if you need,” Robert says. 

“I already offered,” Mouse says. 

“Mouse,” Becks says quite patiently, “Didn’t you get a cab to the rink today?”

“Oh shit,” Mouse says, “Yeah, uh, whoops.”

Becks sighs, “I’ll drive both of you home, get your stuff,” she says. 

“I’m fine to dri-” Kent starts. 

“Parse, if you don’t take the ride I swear to god I’ll know your damn teeth out myself,” Danny says. 

So it’s settled. Mouse gets into the back seat of Rebecca’s honda civic and Kent takes the front seat. 

“It smells like Christmas in here,” Mouse says once they’re settled. 

Becks points to an evergreen shaped air freshener. 

“Festive,” Kent says. 

Mouse talks a mile a minute, he doesn’t really need an answer, just happy to keep talking as Becks and Kent sit quietly. 

“And when you played at Harvard, oh man, that was cool, you were like so good. I know most people only know you from the Olympic team, hell my sister had your poster from 2010 in her bedroom, but you’ve always been good. It’s really cool, I think, how you’re like, really smart and good at hockey at the same time, which I guess is because you went to Harvard. Man those uniforms, they’re clean. I really like the red, wonder if we’ll ever get red alternates.”

Becks drops Mouse off first, a condo that’s not quite downtown but close enough. 

And then it’s just her and Kent. 

Kent thinks that Becks is objectively, a very cool person. Not quite as much as Mouse does (though Mouse thinks just about everyone he meets is the coolest person in the world) but quite a lot. And Mouse was right, she was really good when she played at Harvard. The leading scorer in NCAA women’s hockey for four years running, Kent’s pretty sure she lead the men’s and women’s leagues in scoring for at least a couple of those years, but those aren’t stats anyone kept track of. She’s an Olympian, played in the National Women’s Hockey League until she was 30 and now she’s trying to break into the NHL. She’s one of the first women Kent’s ever seen behind the bench, so yeah. Objectively cool. 

“They checked you for concussion right?” Becks says, finally breaking the silence.

“Didn’t you break your wrist in 2010 and finish the game anyway?’

“Your point?”

Kent sighs, “I’m good, I’ve been checked, I’d tell you if I wasn’t alright?” he says, and he does mean it. 

It satisfies Becks, though she does give him a slightly sideways look.

Becks has short bleached blonde hair with an undercut. She works out with the team and Kent’s seen her bench more than at least a handful of the guys on the team would even attempt to. He’s also seen videos of her starting fights when she played in Buffalo, she played reckless and hard. Kent respects that about her, but it does mean he absolutely refuses to let her chastise him about his incredibly minor injury. 

They both hear Kent’s phone buzz once in his pocket. Then again with a text. 

“Someone definitely wants to get a hold of you,” Beck says. 

He knows it’s Whiskey, knows he’s probably seen the video by now. 

“I’ll answer him when I get home,” Kent says. 

There’s another buzz from his pocket.

Becks just nods. 

He doesn’t know if he’s feeling reckless, or if he’s remembering the conversation with Bobby from last night and decides he wants to average one coming out per day, but he says, 

“It’s probably my boyfriend.”

Becks doesn’t even flinch. Which he knows he should have kind of expected from an ex-women’s hockey player. 

“He must care about you a lot,” she says. 

Kent nods, “Yeah.”

And then he smiles to himself. At how utterly _un-_ reckless this feels, about how good and normal and uneventful this feels. About this and also how his teammates jumped to help him even though it’s just a busted lip and some stitches, how this would have never happened in Vegas. Becks wouldn’t have gotten hired in Vegas, he’s almost sure of that. Becks pulls into his driveway. 

“Thanks,” Kent says. 

“What?” 

“For the ride,” he says, “And for not making anything a big deal.”

“If you’ve got a boyfriend, you’ve got a boyfriend,” she shrugs, “Thanks for telling me, but I care about maximizing the efficiency of your stride not whether you’ve sucked a dick,” she deadpans it but Kent snorts and she cracks a smile. The vulgarity that comes with playing hockey is apparently not lost on the women either. 

“Okay, cool,” Kent says. 

“I want a picture, sent to my phone, before midnight of you with ice on that face, am I clear, Parson?” she asks. 

“You got it,” Kent says and then he opens his door. 

Becks waits until he’s inside to back out of the driveway. Kent undoes his tie, drops his stuff on the ground and flops onto the couch in the middle of the living room. He groans, bone tired. He has just enough energy to start answering texts.

**Swoops:** **how’s ur face**

 **Kent:** **it’s got eight new stitches in it.**

**Scraps:** **I totally get it, drinks are on me next time you’re in Vegas, and I’ll tell the guys not to aim for your face next time ;p**

 **Kent:** **you better, i was looking forward to catching up**

**Kelli:** **i’m never letting my son on skates, it’s decided**

 **Kent:** **stitches build character**

**Bobby:** **glad you didn’t break your jaw**

 **Bobby:** **because now you have no excuse to avoid dinner**

 **Kent:** **okay, okay, you win. I promise i’ll be there**

**Danny:** **Krina wants to know if you need anything, I just got home and she’s already offering to drop off a lasagna for you, i told her it was just a little cut but you know how she is.**

 **Kent:** **tell Krina i said thanks but i’ll be fine**

He remembers the radio silence from Vegas, the way no one dared even look at him when he severed the artery in his wrist a few seasons ago. He remembers the texts from Swoops, a reminder that he really only had one real friend back then. He remembers Whiskey’s phone calls being what got him through it. 

And he looks down at his phone. Zero missed texts. And it’s not like he was expecting it, not like he needed it. But it’s not like Whiskey not to call or text or worry. It’s Whiskey’s lack of worry that makes Kent worry. 

He remembers Becks’ order, finds an icepack and sends her a picture of it, he receives a single thumbs up emoji in return. 

He’s probably worrying too much, he has Whiskey’s schedule, they played a home game tonight, and Kent’s like 90 per cent sure his shoulder’s fucked up and he works himself as hard as he can without collapsing. It stands to reason that he’s tired. And he usually calls in the morning right after his run. Kent’s just going to have to get used to falling asleep without talking to him, so what. He can deal. 

He pours himself a glass of water which he sets next to his bed. He brushes his teeth, takes a multivitamin and an advil. He pokes at the tender skin around his lip, it stings. It’s the first time he assesses the damage. Doc did a good job stitching him up so the scar shouldn’t be too noticeable. He’s had stitches like this before, they’ll make him wear a cage instead of a half-face visor until he gets the stitches taken out which should be in about a week. In the grand scheme of injuries, he decides this one ranks significantly below severing an artery but slightly above twisting an ankle. 

Kit is laying exactly in the middle of his bed when he walks out of the en-suite. 

“Come on,” Kent says, “You know I need my beauty sleep.”

He moves her to the other side of the bed. Whiskey’s side of the bed even though he’s never slept in it. He plugs in his phone, downs half the glass of water and turns out the lamp next to the bed. 

The buzzing of his phone tears him from sleep three hours later. Whiskey’s contact photo pops up on his screen and Kent slides to answer it. 

“Hey,” he mumbles wiping sleep out of his eyes. 

He listens to Whiskey saying Kent’s name a couple times. He's speaking slowly, like his tongue is heavier than usual. Kent sits up when he realizes. 

“Connor, are you drunk?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kent is doing so good in Quebec City, ik this isn't mainly from his perspective but like, know that everyone loves him and thinks he's cool and funny and a good teammate. i love knowing what y'all think about the story so comments are always appreciated if you feel up to it!


	15. I'll see it through I've always pulled the weight for two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor is in fact drunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from has it hit you by the regrettes (10/10 band btw)

Whiskey feels good. Like really, really fucking good. It’s the first time in weeks, maybe months that he’s felt this good.He knows it’s because he’s drunk, a mix of tequila, a couple beers and the high of a home game win. 

He feels loose and he smiles, dances in a club downtown, his team tucked away in the booth in the back. He hasn’t checked his phone since he got off the bus. He tilts his head back and looks up at the ceiling. The dark club seems to spin all around him but not in a way that’s at all unpleasant. He’s not dizzy so much as he’s floating. 

Jari has a girl in his lap and he’s whispering something in her ear and she’s giggling. Jari has it so easy, girls just fall into his lap all the time. Whiskey’s not sure if it’s the accent or the hockey or the fact that he has a six-pack, but whatever it is, he hasn’t been alone since the team got here. 

“I’m buying another round!” Someone shouts and there are cheers. 

Whiskey remembers knocking back another shot of tequila, looking over at the dance floor and wishing that Kent was in his lap. He wants to feel this good and he knows that if Kent was here, pressed up against him like Jari’s Instagram model is pressed up against Jari, he’d probably feel twice as good. 

“Q!” Someone shouts, it takes a couple seconds for him to realize that it’s him they’re talking to. 

He turns his head a little too fast and the room lurches around him. 

“We’re heading out, you want to share the cab?” Tyler asks him. 

Whiskey shakes his head. He looks and sees Jari still sitting at the edge of the table with the girl. He doesn’t want to leave, he doesn’t want to stop feeling good. If he leaves he might stop feeling good. Jari whispers something else in the girl’s ear and she leans forward to kiss him on the cheek. Whiskey sees Jari smirk at him. Shevs and Fischer are still at the booth, both nursing beers and just talking. 

“I gotta go to the bathroom,” Whiskey says. 

He stumbles when he stands up, he’s pretty sure no one notices though. He makes his way to the back of the club and ducks into the bathroom. It’s empty at this time of night. Everyone who wants to hook up has gone home instead of getting it on in the men’s room and no one has quite started throwing up yet. 

“Kent,” he doesn’t even remembering dialling his number but now he’s talking to him, “Keeeennnnt,” he wants to feel his boyfriend’s name in his mouth so he stretches it out. 

“Connor, are you drunk?” Kent sounds sleepy, he’s so pretty when he’s sleepy. 

“Misss you,” Whiskey says, “And I love you, and I wish you were here. We won and it was great and I just feel amazing about it,” Whiskey says, “God I wish you were here,” Whiskey leans against the wall, “You’re so pretty,” Whiskey smiles to himself just thinking about him, “God you’re so pretty, I miss you. S’not fair, want you to be here,” There’s a whine to Whiskey’s voice. 

He hears Kent sigh. 

“Connor, where are you?” Kent asks. 

“We went out after the game, M’in the bathroom.”

“So you are drunk?”

“Just a little,” Whiskey says, “Did you know that I love you?” He says, and suddenly it’s the most important thing in the world for Kent to know how much Whiskey loves him, “More than anything else in the world, I just love every piece of you, everything, y’know?”

“I love you too,” Kent’s answer comes after a brief pause, “You should get back to your team, we can talk in the morning.”

“But I miss you  _ now, _ ” Whiskey whines, “You should come here soon, or I’ll come there. I’m just… every time I go to sleep and you’re not here… S’like little piece of me dies, just a little bit.”

Kent sighs into the phone again, “Yeah, I want to see you,’ if Whiskey were sober he would probably notice the concern in his boyfriend’s voice. 

“I’ll uh, I’ll check the schedule, okay?” 

“Yeah!” Whiskey grins, “Please, I miss you so much.”

“I know, I miss you too,” Kent says, “It’s nearly three in the morning, you should get home soon.”

“Yes sir,” Whiskey says, sarcastic.And then he laughs, it comes out as a giggle which turns into a yawn, “Okay,” he relents, “M’gonna find the guys, love you.”

“Goodnight,” Kent yawns. 

Whiskey hangs up. 

He runs into Jari as he’s walking back to the booth. 

“Q!” Jari says, “I’m going home with this chick, I’ll see you in the morning.

Whiskey looks past Jari, sees the girl he’s been talking to all night waiting expectantly. 

“Hell yeah,” Whiskey says, unsure of what else to say. 

He doesn’t remember getting into a cab but he does remember stumbling out of it and taking the elevator up to the apartment. It’s quiet without the sound of Jari, his music, his snoring, his relentlessly heavy footsteps. Whiskey tries to sleep. But he doesn’t. He’s restless, can’t figure out if it’s because of the jagerbomb he’d done earlier in the night or because he’s anxious about something. He decides it’s early enough (or late enough depending on how you see it) to put on his jogging pants and run it out of his system. 

He gets ready, splashes water onto his face in an attempt to sober up just a little. It wakes him up, but he’s awake enough as it is anyway. He heads out, but not before he takes another vicodin tablet. He used to only take them before bed, but now he takes one in the morning too. It hurts if he doesn’t, he can’t play if he doesn’t. It’s cleared by the doctor, it’s fine. “Take as needed,” and he needs it right now. 

He runs, and as he runs, his head starts to clear. He’s not great with biology or anatomy, or anything other than hockey really, but in his mind he’s sweating out the alcohol. 

Kent worries about him. Whiskey knows Kent worries about him because Whiskey worries about Kent and that’s what you do when you love someone, worry. The thing is, Whiskey doesn’t want to worry anyone. The worst thing he can be is an inconvenience to someone he loves, which is why he doesn’t tell Kent about the pain meds, he knows Kent’s history. And he doesn’t tell Kent about the days it feels like he’s moving through molasses just to get to the rink. The nights he can’t sleep, the practices where he feels like the ice is going to melt underneath of him and drown him. 

Kent didn’t say “I love you,” back last night. Whiskey’s pretty sure at least. Things are fuzzy even if it was only a few hours ago. Whiskey keeps running, faster than he probably should, it’s no way to maintain a steady pace, sprinting until he bends over gasping for air, and then going again. 

It’s not worth thinking about, it was implied, Whiskey hung up before he could say it, he was tired, he actually did say it but Whiskey didn’t hear, there are any number of explanations, none of them that Kent doesn’t actually love him anymore. 

It would be fair, Whiskey thinks. If Kent stopped, because Whiskey can’t be what Kent deserves. Kent deserves better. He shouldn’t think like that, he knows it. He feels sick, a wave of nausea hits him suddenly and without warning. He doubles over. He wishes he brought water. He gasps for a breath, sits down on the sidewalk with his head in his hands. He gasps for it, like he’ll never get rough air. 

He loves him. He loves him. He loves him. He could disappear. What if he disappeared. If he just ran and kept running, into the woods maybe, across the border. What if he went to the west coast? To California, dyed his hair and changed his name. He’d get shoulder surgery and work in a bank. Or what if he flew across the ocean, went to Italy and learned how to paint. That could be nice. 

It could be, but he knows deep down he wouldn’t last long. Because he wants to be where Kent is and he wants to be where hockey is and he doesn’t know what he would do without the feeling of skates on his feet. He doesn’t mind the pain because it comes along with so much pleasure. He could disappear but he knows he’d be back and he feels like he’s suffocating. He knows that he’s where he’s supposed to be and that makes it worse. There’s a twinge in his shoulder and he knows he’s just imagining it. Whatever he did to fuck it up isn’t career ending, he knows his body well enough to be able to tell that there’s nothing seriously wrong. 

He throws up, right there on the side of the road. There’s not much in his stomach thank god. He feels bad for whoever comes across it when the rest of the world finally wakes up. He forgot to tell Kent he loves him. 

Kent unlocks his phone at 7:30, wipes the sleep out of his eyes and groans. He hates waking up more than any other part of his day. Kit sits on top of his comforters, he reaches 

Out and scratches between her ears and then he looks at his texts. 

**Whiskey:** **I love you**

 **Whiskey:** **I just wanted to tell you that because I’m pretty sure I didn’t say it good enough last night and I know it’s just because you were tired an I was out of it (still kind of am) but I just thought it was important to say because I really love you a lot. And this is such bullshit that I can’t just say it to you, like a real fucking person. It’s such bullshit that I don’t get to wake up next to you and everything that we’re supposed to be able to wish for**

 **Whiskey:** **is it even worth it?**

 **Whiskey:** **all this, everything I’m doing. I’m not anywhere closer to making it than I was when i got here and i just want to give up**

 **Whiskey:** **because you’re not here and I want to be with you but i also know i shouldn’t give up and I knew it was going to be hard but it’s so hard being so far away from you.**

 **Whiskey:** **I love you**

The next message from Whiskey was sent hours after the first ones. Kent feels his hands shake while he reads them. 

**Whiskey:** **hey, i was still out of it when i texted you this morning. I just got back from a run, cleared my head. I’m fine, just a bad night, that’s all.**

Kent doesn’t answer him. He throws his phone back onto the bed and stands up. He gets dressed and throws some clothes in a bag, not thinking about what he was doing or how he was doing it, just thinking that he needs to be in Michigan right now. He looks at his own bed.  _ Shit,  _ he thinks to himself. Someone has to feed his cat. Someone should water the plants.  _ Fuck,  _ he was supposed to have dinner with Bobby and his family tonight. 

He wishes that none of that mattered, that he could just get on a plane and hold his boyfriend and finally get him to admit that something was wrong and Kent could try and kiss it better and hold his hand and just get him to talk, but no, his cat has to eat, he has to cancel dinner plans, he has to water the plants. 

He sighs and thumbs through his contents while he grabs his toothpaste and puts it in his duffel. He taps on Becks’ contact. There are only a handful of messages in the thread from a few weeks ago when Kent had gotten lost in Pittsburgh and Becks had sent him directions to the hotel. 

**Kent:** **how do you feel about cats?**

Mercifully, the three dots pop up right away and she answers on their day off. 

**Coach Ryder:** **decidedly neutral, why?**

Kent sighs. He’s an adult and that means he can ask for help. 

**Kent:** **this is weird, i know, but I have to leave town for a couple of days, it’s an emergency and i need someone to feed my cat**

 **Coach Ryder:** **is everything okay?**

 **Kent:** **uh. Maybe i’ll explain later. I’ll be back in time for the game on Saturday night.**

 **Coach Ryder:** **yeah, do what you need to do man, i can feed ur cat. Why me tho?**

And Kent hadn’t really thought about it, just texted the first person he thought of. Quickly, he texts back. 

**Kent:** **i trust you**

 **Kent** **there’s a key taped to the bottom of the mailbox, i keep wet food in the cupboard beside the fridge, she’s a spoiled asshole but if you feed her it’ll work out.**

And then Kent takes a deep breath and goes to cancel his dinner plans. He hates feeling like he’s letting people down more than quite possibly anything else in his life but he knows it’s better to let Bobby know right now than surprising him when he just doesn’t show up. 

**Kent:** **Man I am so sorry, something came up and I won’t be at dinner tonight, i know you think I’m blowing you off again, but I swear, name a day and I’ll be there next time.**

And then he turns his phone on silent and shoves it in his pocket. 

He’s frantic, not quite panicked but he knows that there’s somewhere he needs to be and he’s not there. He wants to get there as fast as he possibly can. 

The flight is seven hours which gives Kent exactly enough time to go from frantic to panicked. He just stares at the messages, the ones Whiskey had sent in the early hours of the morning. Strangely enough, those aren’t even the ones that make Kent’s head start to spin, it’s not the drunkenness and it’s not even the unhappiness or the longing that makes Kent’s hands shake. It’s the last message he sent, “I just got back from a run, cleared my head. I’m fine, just a bad night, that’s all.”

And all Kent can imagine is Whiskey running until he was too tired to keep going. Imagines him deciding not to think about the things that are bothering him. Because he does that, way too fucking often if you ask Kent. Something bugs him and he just decides to pretend it doesn’t, pushes it out of his brain entirely. He knows that Whiskey won’t talk to him about it outright, he won’t just say it. It takes coaxing and it takes work and sometimes Whiskey gets resentful if Kent asks him to open up, that was something he was working on in therapy. Kent’s not even sure if Whiskey’s going anymore. 

**Kent:** **i have a surprise for you**

 **Kent:** **pick me up at the airport in an hour.**

 **Whiskey:** **pick you up where?????**

 **Kent:** **I don’t play until Saturday, I’m ditching practice so I can see you**

 **Kent:** **the schedule just worked this week.**

 **Whiskey:** **I’ll be there**

Kent smiles in spite of himself while he turns his phone off. His boyfriend is better when they’re together. He can fix this. He’ll fix this. 

Whiskey thinks it’s strange, he doesn’t remember talking about this with Kent, but then again, maybe they had and he just can’t remember. So he decides that he’ll act like it’s normal and not at all strange that Kent just decided to show up today out of absolutely nowhere. 

Whiskey has his hands in his pockets, he’s looking down at his feet when Kent catches his eye across the airport. He’s so bright. Everything about him, it’s like the rest of the world is tinged with just a little bit of grey, but Kent looks warm. And then Kent’s standing right in front of him, holding an overnight bag. His sleeves are rolled up and he’s grinning and Whiskey takes all of him in. 

“Hi,” Kent says. 

“Hi,” Whiskey tries to give Kent the same smile, falls a little bit short. 

He wants to scream, he wants to touch, he wants to kiss and hold but instead all he says is, 

“I’m parked outside.”

Kent nods and follows him, at a strictly platonic appearing distance. It’s not quite sunset yet but it’s getting there. Whiskey takes Kent’s bag and puts it in the backseat of his dad’s car. The car hasn’t gotten much use these days, between Jari driving him to practice and Whiskey walking pretty much everywhere else. 

Kent slides into the passenger seat, taps his hand against the window. He gives a quick look on either side of them and then leans over the centre console to plant a short and sweet kiss on Whiskey’s lips. 

“How are you?” Kent asks. 

“Better now that you’re here,” Whiskey answers. 

And that seems like the right thing to say, because Kent is beaming and he puts his hand on top of Whiskey’s. 

“I uh, I just need to make sure my roommate’s still out of the apartment,” Whiskey says, “He doesn’t really know…” 

Kent nods. 

“I didn’t really think about that,” he admits. 

“It’s fine,” Whiskey says, “He’s hanging out with some other guys and then he’s spending the night with some girl before the game tomorrow night.”

“Which means I get to spend the night with you?” Kent asks. 

“Yes,” Whiskey says simply and leans over to kiss him on the cheek. 

All Whiskey wants now is to feel Kent close to him, he kisses him again. Kent grabs a hold of his face and pulls him closer and kisses him hard. His hands are soft, gently stroking the sides of his face while he runs his tongue against the inside of Whiskey’s mouth. 

Whiskey pulls away and gasps. 

“I have a bed at home.”

Kent smirks. Whiskey keeps his free hand on Kent’s thigh the entire drive back to the apartment. The energy in the car is intense, bordering on uncomfortable. 

Kent throws his jacket onto the ground and launches himself at Whiskey. 

Whiskey makes a startled noise but he sinks into Kent’s kiss anyway. Kent’s setting the tone, kissing Whiskey so hard that it almost toes the line of being painful. He’s panting, lips wet by the time Kent pulls away. 

“It’s a nice place,” Kent says. 

“Thanks,” Whiskey mutters, “

There is precisely one thing Whiskey wants from Kent right now and Kent knows it too. Kent grabs him by the hips, pulls him close. 

“You want me to fuck you?” Kent whispers into his ear, breath hot on Whiskey’s neck. 

Whiskey nods. 

“Please,” he whispers, “And…” he trails off. 

Kent’s fingers curl around Whiskey’s cheek, “And what? What do you want baby?”

“Don’t be nice about it,” Whiskey whispers. He watches Kent bite his lip and nod. 

“Yeah,” he says, “I can do that.”

And then Kent’s kissing him again, hard. Whiskey’s lips are swollen when Kent pulls him into the bedroom and pushes him down onto the bed. Kent’s already pulling at his jeans, Whiskey squirms to help get them off. 

“I guess I can’t really mark you up if you have a game tomorrow,” Kent frowns as he takes Whiskey’s shirt off for him. 

Whiskey shakes his head, “Nothing too big,” he knows he could make up another story, a fake girl who likes it rough, but he can’t keep lying like that, it’s exhausting. 

So Kent nips at his neck. Whiskey groans. His hands are spread out over Kent’s back. He digs his nails in and Kent arches into Whiskey’s touch. 

“I’m being careful,” Whiskey says before Kent can scold him. 

And then Kent rolls their hips together and Whiskey moans at the friction. Kent gets whiny, deep in the back of his throat, kissing Whiskey, swallowing the sounds he’s making. 

“If you don’t fuck me right now-” Whiskey starts.

Kent cuts him off with another nip to the neck. 

“Please,” Whiskey whines, he’s so hard and he wants Kent, just wants, it doesn’t matter how. 

“What do you want?” Kent asks. 

“Just do it,” Whiskey begs, “I don’t care how, just fuck me, don’t make me think about it.”

Whiskey sees something dark in Kent’s eyes. His fingers dig into Whiskey’s hips. Kent nods. He pulls off Whiskey’s pants While Whiskey works on getting his own shirt over his head. Kent yanks down Whiskey’s boxers and Whiskey doesn’t even have time to feel exposed because Kent’s mouth is on his dick immediately. Whiskey touches the back of Kent’s throat and he thinks he sees stars. He hears Kent choking. 

“Are you-” Kent cuts him off with a light slap to the thigh and a nod of his head, mouth still working. 

Whiskey said he wanted Kent to fuck him, but honestly he thinks he could come like this and for a second it seems like Kent is going to let him. Kent pulls off at the last minute, feels like Kent’s sucked all the air out of him, he gasps. 

“Not so easy,” Kent smirks. 

Kent rushes the prep, two sloppy fingers covered in lube, opening Whiskey up and Whiskey’s begging him to just fuck him already. So Kent gets him on his hands and knees, face pressed down into the pillow. Kent’s hand rests on Whiskey’s back, running over the muscles in his shoulders. 

“Just do it, please,” Whiskey says. 

He feels Kent shift behind him. Whiskey’s relaxed, god he’s so relaxed with Kent’s hands on him. It burns a little and Whiskey backs up into it, meeting Kent’s initial thrust. He lets out a sharp gasp. He wants to feel it. He reaches back for Kent’s hand, moves it so that Kent’s fingers are tangled in Whiskey’s hair. Kent gets the hint and tugs, Whiskey gasps and he nods, Kent tugs harder. Whiskey wants to feel it and he doesn’t care if it hurts. Maybe he wants it to hurt. 

“Fuck fuck fuck,” Whiskey mutters under his breath. 

“Look at you,” Kent says, “You’re taking it so well, you’re so good, so good for me,” his voice drops to a purr. He starts speaking nonsense and Whiskey closes his eyes and listens. 

“Don’t stop,” Whiskey mutters, “Keep doing that.”

Kent tugs sharply on Whiskey’s hair and Whiskey throws his head back, arching his back. 

Whiskey lets go of everything else and just focuses on the feeling, letting himself make little noises, groaning.

“I’m gonna come,” he warns Kent. 

“Are you going to let me keep fucking you?” Kent growls. 

Whiskey doesn’t have a chance to say yes, because he’s coming with a shout, “Keep going,” he manages to get out. 

Kent doesn’t even slow down, he maintains a punishing pace, if anything he speeds up and Whiskey starts to see white. His hands fist the sheets. It hurts, god it hurts but Whiskey wants Kent to keep going, he grits his teeth and tells Kent as much. He can feel every hair on his body standing on end and he feels hot tears rolling down his cheeks. Kent moves his hands out of Whiskey’s hair and Whiskey almost complains about it but then Kent’s hands are pressing into his hips, bruising no doubt. He’s adjusting the angle, pulling Whiskey’s hips closer and Whiskey can’t help but to cry out, to be loud and to let the tears run down his cheeks and then Kent comes and he folds forward, hands fisting in Whiskey’s hair and Whiskey groans and collapses forward, the second orgasm surprises him. It steals all the air in his lungs as his head hits the pillow underneath of him.

Kent rolls over. 

“Are you crying?” Kent says and he sounds panicked all of a sudden. 

Whiskey nods but then he shakes his head, catching his breath. It’s fine, they’ve both cried during sex before, Whiskey can’t say it happens often, but it happens. 

“Yeah, it was just… good,” Whiskey says 

Kent puts his hands behind his head and smiles a self satisfied little smirk. It falls quickly as he brushes Whiskey’s hair out of his face, replaced with something much more tender as he kisses the crown of Whiskey’s head. 

Whiskey’s still just lying there, a little bit boneless and a lotta bit brainless. He wipes the tears off of his cheeks and just smiles, letting out a quick breath. 

“I’m gonna go get a washcloth and a water bottle, you stay here,” Kent says and then he gets up, pulling his boxers on as he goes. 

Whiskey stays exactly where Kent left him, he thinks maybe if he’s lucky they’ll do this again before Kent leaves on Saturday morning. Whiskey sits up slightly when he hears Kent in the doorway. Kent drags the washcloth over Whiskey’s torso, hands it to Whiskey so he can finish the job. 

“You’re so good,” Kent kisses Whiskey on the mouth, sits up against the headboard and pulls Whiskey into his arms. Whiskey just smiles and leans into Kent’s touch. They sit like that for a while, Whiskey feeling the rise and fall of Kent’s chest against his body. 

“Hey,” Kent says gently, “So uh, you didn’t tell me they gave you pills. I didn’t mean to snoop but they were just sitting on the counter,” his voice is quiet, uncharacteristically tentative. 

Whiskey turns to look at him, “It’s for my shoulder,” he says, “It’s fine, fucked something up in Detroit but the doctors are keeping me on the ice.”

Kent nods, slowly, deliberately. 

“You didn’t tell me,” he says, Whiskey can recognize that it’s not an accusation. 

“I didn’t want you to worry, it’s nothing,” Whiskey shrugs. And then, as if to remind that it is in fact, not nothing, his shoulder twinges. He doesn’t let Kent know, just shifts slightly in bed. 

“You’re okay though, right?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey nods, “It’s just a little injury, it’s fine,” he very deliberately does not tell Kent that he can’t sleep without the meds at this point. Even though he clears just about every pill he takes with the team doctors, doesn’t mean Kent won’t have something to say about it. 

“Watch me play tomorrow,” Whiskey says, changing the subject. 

Kent nods, “That’s the plan. I have a hotel room for tomorrow night so you don’t have to hide me from the roommate.”

“Maybe I’ll come stay with you there,” Whiskey says, sleep creeping into his voice. 

“You better,” Kent teases and then he yawns. 

Whiskey waits until Kent falls asleep he grits his teeth through a sudden flare of pain until he’s sure he can sneak into the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash it down with a painkiller. 

He sneaks back into bed and wraps himself around Kent. Everything feels soft, he feels like he can do anything and anything can happen and it’s all going to be fine. Kent smells like bodywash, cedarwood and sage, and he smells a little bit like sweat and underneath that there’s the smell of the ice, something cool and a little bit chemical that Whiskey has only ever described to Kent when he asked him what his favourite smell was. Whiskey had been thrilled to find that he wasn’t actually crazy because he loved the smell of the ice as he walked into the lobby. 

“I love you,” Whiskey mumbles against the back of Kent’s neck. 

Kent mumbles something in return, too muffled by the pillow for Whiskey to know what it is, he’s pretty sure it’s  _ I love you too _ though. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is the part where i reassure you that whiskent is in fact fucking endgame no matter what angst the future holds. i also banged this chapter out a lot faster than i thought i would because y'all seemed invested in the last one, so i guess that's proof that your comments really do make me write faster lmao.


	16. He'll blame his mom and dad and you'll say you understand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jari hooks up with a 'weirdo,' Whiskey ignores his own feelings, Kent worries until he can't anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are some general content/trigger warnings in the end notes

Whiskey wakes up to sound of his 5:30 alarm and the unfamiliar feeling of someone shifting in bed with him. 

Kent groans, “God, do we have to get up?”

Whiskey sits up, “Go back to sleep,”

He stands up and stretches. Winces as he rotates his shoulder, but he hides it from Kent, well enough, he thinks. Kent’s tired, he won’t be noticing any of the little details anyway. 

Whiskey walks to the bathroom, checks to make sure Jari’s still not home on his way. He looks at the pill bottle on the counter for half a second before he takes one. He heard the worry in Kent’s voice when he asked him about them. Whiskey tells himself it’s because of Kent’s history, he’s just worried is all. It’s natural to worry, normal to worry, it doesn’t mean that Whiskey’s doing anything wrong. He needs to play hockey and he can’t be in constant pain while he’s playing hockey and he needs to work out so he can play hockey and he can’t do that either if he’s in pain. The painkillers don’t just fix his shoulder but they fix everything, every bump and bruise and ache and pain that has always come along with playing hockey just fades away, it just stops. Well not stops, but he doesn’t have to think about it. Whatever’s wrong with his shoulder is still there in the sense that his range of motion is still slightly limited but it doesn’t feel like someone’s pressing a hot bread knife into his shoulder blade every time he moves. 

So he takes one and Kent doesn’t have to know about it because he shouldn’t have to worry about it. 

Whiskey brushes his teeth, puts the pills back in his side of the medicine cabinet and walks back to his bedroom. Kent is not asleep like he expected, instead he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. Kent holds his arms out and Whiskey steps in between his legs. He puts his hand on top of Kent’s head and kisses his own fingers. 

“I love sleeping with you, but god you get up so fucking early,” Kent groans. 

“Can’t be wasting daylight,” Whiskey says, chipper. 

“The sun’s not even up yet, what can you possibly need to do?”

“Game day,” Whiskey answers, “I’m going for a run.”

Kent nods, “Give me 10 minutes and I’ll join you.”

“You don’t have to,” Whiskey says. 

“No,” Kent groans when he gets up, “I’m going to.”

Whiskey smiles to himself and then at Kent, grabs him by the waist and kisses him on the cheek. 

“I love you,” Whiskey says and then kisses him gently on the lips, “Now hurry up, I have a schedule,” he pats the back of his head and walks across the room. 

He puts on a pair of jogging pants and a hoodie. He waits for Kent to get ready in the living room, jumps up when Kent finally emerges from his bedroom. 

“Ready?” Whiskey asks. 

“As I’ll ever be,” Kent says. 

Kent doesn’t hate running but Whiskey knows it’s not his favourite thing, especially in the cold of the morning. He complains about the cold as soon as they get out the door. 

“It’ll warm up once the sun comes up.”

Kent grumbles something about the insanity of running before the sun even comes out. Whiskey just smiles and punches him in the arm. 

“Let’s see if you can keep up.”

Kent does, of course he does, he’s in the same shape as Whiskey. Probably better considering he has two working shoulders. They don’t talk much while they run and by the time they get back the sun is up and they’re both a little bit sweaty. 

“Race you up the stairs,” Whiskey grins when they get to the lobby. And then he dashes past Kent and up the first flight of stairs. He hears Kent laughing behind him and panting as they try to one up each other. 

Whiskey wins owing to the head start. Kent rests his head on Whiskey’s shoulder and laughs while Whiskey pushes the front door open. Kent’s cheeks are flushed and his hands are cold so Whiskey takes Kent’s hands in his own and kisses him on the cheeks.  “You’re in a good mood today,” Kent says. 

“It’s a good day, you’re here,” Whiskey says, “I’m going to have a shower and then we can get breakfast.”

Kent raises an eyebrow, gives Whiskey a suggestive look and then they both laugh. 

“Alright come on then.”

Whiskey is genuinely happy. He’s not pretending for Kent’s sake and the smile comes easily. It’s not that he’s miserable without Kent, he thinks he could survive being on his own and he knows he can be miserable with him. It’s just that a good day so happens to have coincided with the day that Kent decided to visit. 

“So uh, do you have a plan for tonight or are you going to let everyone wonder why you showed up at a random AHL game on your Friday off?” Whiskey asks once they’re out of the shower. 

Kent wraps a towel around his waist and uses another one to dry his hair, he shrugs, “Just gonna hang out in one one of the suites, stay away from the cameras, through on a mets hat and hang low,” Kent says, “Already bought a ticket,” Kent says. 

Whiskey rolls his eyes, “You just have everything planned, huh?” Whiskey says. 

“No one’s gonna notice me unless they’re looking for me. I’m a white guy at a hockey game, perfect disguise.”

“You’re a genius,” Whiskey rolls his eyes and dries his hair in front of the mirror. 

They go get breakfast and walk around town while Kent waits for his hotel room to be ready. And Whiskey’s proud of himself for keeping everything light. He gets Kent to talk about his team and they talk about hockey and once or twice Kent says something like “you’re  _ sure  _ everything is as good as you’re saying it is,” but Whiskey always recovers and promises that he’s doing fine, or he points something out in the park that they happen to be walking through and Kent is sufficiently distracted. 

They part ways in the afternoon with Kent promising to find him after the game and Whiskey promising to spend the night in Kent’s hotel room. 

“Well, well, well, where the fuck were we this morning?” Jari asks as soon as Whiskey gets home. 

“Fuck off, “ Whiskey flops down on the couch next to him and picks up the spare controller. Jari adds him to the game, “I was out.”

“With the same chick who gave you that?” Jari points to Whiskey’s neck. 

Whiskey looks down and sees a hickey that Kent had given him this morning.

“Fuck,” he mutters. 

“Hey, it’s chill,” Jari says. And then he gets a mischievous smirk on his face, “So is it this mystery girlfriend that likes it rough or did you hook up while I was gone?” He elbows him playfully. 

Whiskey just rolls his eyes. 

“I’m not gonna tell her, I don’t know who the fuck your girl is. Spill the deets though,” Jari says. 

“It was nothing,” he says. 

“Come on, I tell you about my kills.”

Whiskey rolls his eyes again, “Okay, for one, I never asked you to do that, and for two, do we have to call them kills?”

“Okay fine, I tell you about the fully alive women I fuck.”

“God you’re gross,” Whiskey says, but he says it with a smile, “It was just some girl,” he lies.

“She hot?” Jari asks. 

Whiskey shrugs, “Yeah,” he desperately wants to change the subject. 

“Oh my god!” Jari says, “I didn’t tell you, this chick I was with last night was fucking crazy.”

“Good crazy or bad crazy?” Whiskey asks. He’ll listen to a Jari Niemenen Sex Story (trademark pending) if it gets him out of the first half of this conversation. 

“Like, weird crazy Jari says.”

Both of them are looking ahead at the TV playing NBA 2K but Whiskey sees an almost haunted look on Whiskey’s face. 

“So I go over to her house after dinner with Fisch, right?”

Whiskey nods. 

“And she’s like a fucking smokeshow, like a solid 10, I almost can’t believe that I pulled this girl, blonde, perfect body,” Jari holds his hands up and makes an hourglass motion, Whiskey rolls his eyes once again, “Anyway we start making out and I finger her for a little bit, because I’m a gentleman.”

“Are these details going to actually be relevant or are you just bragging?” Whiskey teases. 

Jari elbows him in the side, “Relevant… well kind of, anyway, she starts sucking my dick and this fucking chick!” Jari sounds borderline hysterical, Whiskey’s expecting teeth to be involved, he cringes as Jari continues, “And she puts her finger in my ass!” Jari says. 

Whiskey tries not to laugh. 

“Is that it, dude?” Whiskey asks. 

“It was fucking traumatic, Q” Jari shakes his head like a man who’s seen like, war or some shit, “Do I look like the kinda guy who likes fingers up my ass? I am a proud heterosexual, red blooded American”

And then Whiskey does laugh. He laughs because he thinks he’s supposed to and the alternative is to sink into the couch in embarrassment. 

“No, she was probably just a weirdo, also you’re Finnish” Whiskey says and he feels like sinking lower. 

Whiskey’s not like, 100% sure, or anything, on how his teammates would react if they found out he was bisexual and specifically, if they found out he was dating a man, but this interaction with Jari puts a solid tick in the  _ don’t ever tell them  _ column. 

“Other than the finger in the ass, how was it?” Whiskey asks, trying to make it look like he’s not swallowing his own tongue. 

“I’ll probably text her again,” Jari shrugs, then he stands up, “You want a protein shake?”

Whiskey just nods and laughs. He takes a breath, a deep breath and then looks ahead at the TV screen and then down the hall to the bathroom. He can feel the meds wearing off, not just in his shoulder but everywhere. He doesn’t usually let himself take more than one in the morning and one before bed, but just once. To keep himself from imploding on the couch next to Jari. So he gets up and swallows one of the tablets dry and he knows it’s just placebo but he feels better the second it touches his tongue. He flushes the toilet and walks out into the living room. Jari throws the protein shake at him and Whiskey catches it, with his bad arm no less. 

“Oh, I should tell you, dude,” Whiskey says, “Not coming home tonight after the game, I’ve got plans.”

“Like, sex plans?’ Jari asks. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says. 

“Same chick?”

“Sure,” Whiskey answers. 

“God you’re too much of a gentleman. It’s so boring.”

Whiskey rolls his eyes and slinks lower into the couch, taking a massive gulp of chalky strawberry protein shake. 

He manages to forget about it, it’s a weird thing to get freaked out about. It’s not like Jari knows. And Jari just carries on like nothing happened, because to him, nothing did happen. 

When they get ready to head to the rink, Whiskey slips his pills into his bag. If Jari notices he doesn’t say anything. 

The trainers have been looking him over before every game. 

“How’s it feel?” one of them asks. 

“Comes and goes,” Whiskey says, “the painkillers help.”

He nods, “They should, I’ll get the doc to get you some more.”

“Thanks,” Whiskey nods. 

“Oh, and you didn’t hear it from me but you might want to start looking at real estate in Detroit, just in case,” and then he winks. 

“Holy shit, seriously?” 

The trainer nods, “That’s why it’s so important for us to keep you on the ice,” he claps Whiskey on the back as he takes off his sterile gloves and drops them in the trash. 

Whiskey can’t think about anything else as he ties his skates, as the anthems play, as the puck is dropped and he wins the faceoff. 

Whiskey loves hockey. He just does, that’s something he’s known about himself since he was 9 years old. He has also, never been good at anything else. He was an athletic kid but he never really excelled in anything until he started playing hockey and he  _ definitely  _ didn’t excel in school, not the way his parents expected him to. He made it through high school because his girlfriend let him cheat off of her. And he made through college, all four years, but he’s not stupid enough to think it really counts. He has a degree, but he did it on an athletic scholarship and he did it with all the extensions and subtly-not-so-subtly modified grading rubrics that come along with it. 

He doesn’t know what he would do if he didn’t do this. 

He sits on the bench next to Jari, they share a gatorade bottle, they share looks, they strategize, it’s the only language he’s ever been sure he speaks fluently, hockey. 

And he jumps over the boards in the second period, the game is tied 2-2 and his movements feel smooth and so easy. He knows where everyone else is, where he needs to be, knows how fast he needs to move to get to the puck, knows exactly how to hold his stick to get off the perfect wrist shot. 

One of the defensemen has the puck on his stick, Whiskey’s in the attacking zone standing in front of the goaltender, he’s pushing and shoving with the other team’s defenseman to try and create some space for himself. He knows exactly how much space he needs. 

A student journalist at Samwell once asked him what he’d be doing if he wasn’t playing hockey and Whiskey didn’t have an answer. 

The defenseman leaves Whiskey open for the tiniest second. 

Kent always tells him he’s smart but Whiskey knows he wouldn’t be anywhere without hockey. 

Whiskey’s own d-man meets his eyes and Whiskey nods furiously. 

Tango had been like, actually smart. Maybe he wouldn’t have gotten into Samwell without his athletic scholarship, but once he got there he made sure he took advantage of it. And Ford, Ford had graduated at the top of her class in the theatre department. They had both been so good at school that they’d decided to do more of it. 

Whiskey slaps his stick against the ice. The other team’s d-man sees what’s happening but it’s too late because Whiskey already picked his spot. 

If Whiskey didn’t have hockey he knows he’d work for his dad and he knows he wouldn’t have earned a single thing. 

The puck bulges against the twine at the back of the net and the goal horn goes off and Whiskey joins his team in cheering, the tie finally broken in their favour. 

“Atta fuckin be!” someone shouts. 

Whiskey thinks of Kent in the crowd and then quickly stops because he thinks maybe his teammates can see it on his face. 

He returns to the bench to a chorus of cheers and fist bumps. And then he takes his next shift and he goes into the corner to get a puck and he gets hit, hard and it  _ hurts,  _ it radiates through the drugs and the adrenaline and he looks up at the scoreboard and there are only thirty seconds left in the period and he can make it thirty seconds. He counts them all down in his head and then he’s off the ice as quick as he can, sitting down in his stall, eyes screwed shut. 

He gets pulled aside by one of the trainers, the one who’d told him about Detroit before the game. 

“Hurts,” Whiskey says, “Motion’s fine, I didn’t feel anything tear. Just,” he grits his teeth, “How can I get back on the ice.”

There’s desperation in his voice and he hopes the trainer can hear it, hopes he knows what the implications of this game are. 

After five minutes of talking, the trainer and the team doctor agree to give him a shot of something. Whiskey doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t even ask, just knows that they inject it into his shoulder, give him some water and tell him he can be on the ice for the third. He breathes a sigh of relief as the pain numbs, not just in his shoulder but everywhere. 

The guys in the locker room give him slightly concerned looks but no one says anything and the looks go away as soon as he sits down. 

The game ends 3-2, the Grifs lock it down and play defense and Whiskey leaves the ice feeling fucking incredibly. He does media with a smile, answering the questions with ease. No one even asks about his shoulder or the hit that took him down which means no one in Detroit probably noticed it either. 

And he gets to see Kent, Kent. He grins as he puts his suit back on. Jari shoots him a suggestive look as he leaves. He looks over his shoulder as he jogs out to the parking lot. There’s slush on the ground, it must have snowed and melted in the time they’d been inside. He has his phone and his bag in his hand and he finds Kent standing next to a rented sports car. 

He grins, “Let’s get out of here,” he says. 

Kent nods and smiles, it’s a little more subdued than as good as Whiskey’s feeling. Whiskey slides into the passenger seat and plants a kiss right on Kent’s lips. 

“So what’s the plan?” Whiskey asks. 

“Watch a movie,” Kent shrugs, “Talk.”

Kent’s quieter, like he’s thinking about something, Whiskey can’t find it in himself to mind. 

The hotel is nice, not seedy or run down, Whiskey’s pretty sure it’s where opposing teams stay when they have to spend the night instead of taking the bus straight home. They played Rockford tonight, so Whiskey knows he won’t be seeing any unfriendly faces. 

They check in and Whiskey attacks Kent with a kiss the second they’re alone behind the hotel room door. 

“Fuck, I miss you,” Whiskey says, and then he hoists Kent up so that his legs are wrapped around his waist. Whatever they gave him between periods is still working it’s magic. 

“Oh yeah?” Kent teases. 

Whiskey smirks, “I’ll prove it to you.”

“Please go ahead.” Kent taunts him. 

Whiskey spends the next two hours turning Kent into a sweaty, shaky mess. It can be good to go fast and hard, but they have all the time in the world right now that means that Whiskey is going to use every second of hit to kiss every inch of Kent’s skin, continuing on his large, arduous, hopefully lifelong task of kissing every single one of the freckles on Kent’s back. 

Kent showers while Whiskey re-makes the bed and hopes that Kent tips the housekeeping staff well before he leaves. Kent comes out of the bathroom wearing one of those fluffy white hotel robes. Whiskey sits on the edge of the bed. 

“So I have good news,” he says. 

Kent quirks an eyebrow and sits down next to him. Whiskey takes Kent’s hand in his. 

“It’s not a sure thing,” he says, “but I talked to a trainer today and he said they might be looking to call me up.”

“What?” Kent asks, his eyes go wide, “Seriously?”

Whiskey nods and Kent pulls him in for a hug and they kiss. 

“We should celebrate,” Whiskey says, “I bet we could order a bottle of wine or something.”

“You shouldn’t drink on painkillers,” Kent says almost instantly. 

“It’s not a big deal,” Whiskey says. 

“It could be,” Kent mumbles. 

“Hey,” Whiskey hooks his thumb under Kent’s chin, Kent looks a little paler than usual, he doesn’t look at Whiskey, “I’m fine.”

And then Kent pulls away, like something Whiskey said flipped a switch and now he’s standing and he’s shaking his head. 

“Connor I am so worried about you all the time, it’s  _ constant,  _ don't you  _ dare,  _ try and tell me that you are fine because I know you and I know that you’re not.”

And Whiskey’s confused, because he’s been good he’s been so good today and yesterday and since Kent got here. He stays sitting on the bed while Kent stands in front of him. He tries holding his hands out and when Kent doesn’t take him, then he talks. 

“Baby, I swear,” he says. 

“You’re lying to me, don’t lie to me.”

“Hey, it’s really all good, I’m sorry, you’re right I won’t drink while I’m on painkillers,” Whiskey circles back to what caused Kent to snap in the first place, “Dumb idea.”

“It’s not about that,” Kent hisses. 

“What is it about?” Whiskey says, he’s trying to stay open, “If it’s about the pills it’s… I’m not gonna. I’m not Jack,” he mutters. 

“It’s not that either,” Kent runs his hands through his hair. 

Whiskey puts his arm around Kent’s waist and pulls him in between his legs and looks at him soft. 

“Then what?” 

Kent leans into Whiskey’s touch for just a second, but then he shakes his head, moves away. 

“Don’t distract me, ever since I got here you’ve just been distracting me, trying to act like it’s all good.”

“It  _ is  _ all good,” Whiskey says, “We had a good time, didn’t we?”

Kent takes a breath, “Yeah, and it reminded me exactly of why I miss you so much and why I got on a plane out of nowhere to come see you.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“I am  _ worried _ ,” Kent says. 

And it hits Whiskey in the gut because he hates worrying Kent more than just about anything else. 

“You don’t need to be, I told you, it’s not like Jack and I know that you might worry more because of that, but it’s just my shoulder, okay?”

“Don’t,” Kent snaps, “Don’t make this about something that happened when I was a teenager, I can separate that from this. Yeah, I’m fucking worried about the pills but I was worried before you got hurt. You’re not talking to me, you’re not telling me anything! And the only time you do tell me anything is when you’re drunk and texting me and calling me and then the second you sober up you tell me that everything is fine and I don’t need to worry.”

“I don’t want to-” Whiskey starts. 

“No,” Kent says, “I’m allowed to worry, you’re allowed to make me worry, you’re my boyfriend I’m allowed to be worried about you, especially right now. And you know what, fucking sue me, Kent says, it is the pills. And the drinking and the getting out of bed and hoping I wouldn’t notice you sneaking into the bathroom!”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you, because I knew you’d overreact!” Whiskey finally breaks and shouts back. 

“Because I’ve seen this before! It’s the hiding it that I’m so fucking worried about all the time,” Kent says. 

And Whiskey goes on the defensive. Because he is  _ not,  _ Jack Zimmermann 2.0 and this is  _ not  _ the same. 

“You said it yourself, don’t make this about something that happened when you were a teenager, I’m a grown up. I got hurt, I can’t play if I’m hurt so the  _ doctors  _ gave me something to help me keep playing because I need to keep playing. And you don’t get to act all holier than thou about it because you haven’t processed what happened with your ex boyfriend ten years ago”

“That’s,” Kent says, “I’m going to ignore that last part,” he grits his teeth, “Holy fuck. Do you really think they actually have your best interests at heart?” Kent sneers.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Whiskey spits back. 

“They work for your team,” Kent says, “Your team makes money when you play, how do you expect them to do the right thing.”

“Me playing is the right thing,” Whiskey says, “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“Now what does  _ that  _ mean?” Kent rolls his eyes. 

“You didn’t have to crawl your way up from the minors!” Whiskey shouts, “I’m the one doing that, I’m the one who gets to make the decision about whether I keep playing or not and whether I take something to make sure I can do that. I can’t afford to lose time this early in the season, you don’t fucking understand” Whiskey swats a tear off of his own cheek. 

Kent looks like he might start crying at any second too. 

“What I do understand is what someone looks like when they’re spiralling,” Kent says. 

“Stop it!” Whiskey shouts, “Just stop!”

Kent steps back. 

“I am  _ not  _ Jack!”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Well that’s what it fucking feels like,” Whiskey says. 

And Whiskey balls up his fists and digs his nails into his palms and he wants to yell but instead he stands up and in the process he kicks over his backpack. And it’s his luck, it’s his stupid fucking luck that the pill bottle tumbles out onto the floor and lands at Kent’s feet. 

Kent looks at the bottle and then at Whiskey and then he holds his hands out in front of him and shrugs. 

“I can’t do this,” he says, “If you’re hiding that from me I don’t know what else you’re hiding. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“You don’t have to fix me!” Whiskey shouts, “That’s not your fucking job!”

“I love you!” Kent shouts back. 

Whiskey just looks at him and Kent looks back at him and only now does Whiskey realize how dumb this all looks, he’s standing at the edge of the bed in his boxers and a sweatshirt, Kent’s wearing a fluffy white robe. 

“Maybe this was just never going to work,” he knows it’s going to hurt Kent because it hurts him to say. But maybe that’s the truth. Maybe if Kent can’t stop worrying then Whiskey needs to get him out of here. He needs to give him a reason to stop worrying. 

“That’s not-”

“I think it is,” Whiskey says, “It was stupid to try.” He steels his expression

“Connor,” Kent says in his soft voice now. 

“Don’t,” Whiskey says, “If I’m a problem I’ll go. That’s what this is right, it’s the distance and the game and the league and it’s not working so I’ll go.”

Kent just shrugs and nods bitterly . 

“Let me drive you home.”

And then he excuses himself to the bathroom to get dressed and Whiskey’s about to ask him why he doesn’t just do it in the hotel room but he bites his tongue. It’s strange, how quickly it de-escalated, how quickly they both just gave up. He’s so tired, he doesn’t have it in him to fight, not even for this. 

And he picks up his things and puts on his clothes and Kent drives in silence, not even the radio is on. And when they pull into the parking lot, Kent looks at Whiskey. 

“So we just broke up?” Kent says

“Yeah,” Whiskey answers, he won’t waver, he won’t go back on this. Because he’s right, because Kent can’t just worry mindlessly, he can’t just not trust him. And then Whiskey remembers the girl who kissed him in a nightclub and he remembers the bad days he doesn’t tell Kent about and he thinks maybe Kent has a reason not to trust him. And he swallows the lump in his throat because this is the best thing for Kent, he convinced himself of it on the drive over here. 

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Kent asks. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey answers again, gritting his teeth. 

“Fine,” Kent says and he reaches into the backseat and hands Whiskey his backpack and he won’t look him in the eyes. 

“Fine,” Whiskey says and he gets out of the car. 

The first thing he says, upon realizing that Jari is still awake and sitting on the couch is,

“Do you want to go out, I need to get drunk.”

He doesn’t check his phone all night. He talks himself into thinking that this was the best thing to do. Not for him, definitely not for him, but that doesn’t matter. He gets drunk. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content/trigger warnings  
> Whiskey is definitely spiralling, he's very much attempting to justify his own behaviour to himself and although he only sees the painkillers as a way to keep playing hockey it's clear that it could become an addiction. Kent and Whiskey also discuss Whiskey's drinking and Jack's overdose is brought up. Tread carefully and take care of yourself!  
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> Notes:  
> so uhhhh, i told you angst was coming. i hope you can all trust me that this is just an important part of their story and i do in fact have a plan for them and you can be fully in love with someone and still break up with them. Whiskey is uh, not in a good place as you have all noticed
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> comments are always appreciated even if you're mad at me. i have a bunch of stuff to do for school which either means i will update this every day or you won't see me for a couple weeks, i'm always on tumblr at omg-whiskey


	17. It's hard for me to go home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a tale of two exes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some more content warnings in the end notes

Jari has a hunch that Whiskey got dumped so he makes it his personal mission to get Whiskey 1) drunk and 2) laid. 

Whiskey is really only looking for one of those things, it’s far too soon to hook up with the first girl Jari brings to the bar and he’s so drunk he doesn’t think he could even if he wanted to. So he waves Jari away and nurses a beer. 

“Fuck her dude!” Jari says, “Whoever she was, you’re better than her.”

The thing is, Whiskey knows he absolutely is not. He hasn’t told Jari it was him who did the breaking up either. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “Fuck love,” and then he finishes his beer. 

And then he wakes up at home. 

Kent is less hysterical than he thought he’d be. He’s perfectly calm while he packs up his hotel room. Smiles and charms the woman at the rental car place when he returns his car. He buys the earliest plane ticket and he sleeps through most of the flight. He doesn’t even dream. He signs a hat at the airport in Quebec City and he drives home with the radio on, he waves to his neighbour as he unlocks the door. 

The sun is streaming in the front window, the plants have been watered, and that’s when he breaks. He slumps down against the door, feels his hands start to shake and the rest of him starts to shake and the tears aren’t coming out of his eyes, he’s just breathing in an in and in and in and he lets out a scream and knocks his head against the door and then he cries. 

“Parson?”

And he hears footsteps, he’s pretty sure and he looks up and Becks is standing in the doorway holding Kit’s food dish. Kent squeezes his eyes shut and when he opens them, she’s crouched in front of him, hand outstretched but not sure if she should touch him. 

“Parson,” she says, more insistently. 

Kent’s breathing hard and his throat feels like he’s going to suffocate. He always knew that he could live without Whiskey, he’s strong, he’s been broken up with before. But not this way, not now. 

“Parson,” Becks’ voice is loud, “Has this happened before? Can I help you?’

“Water,” Kent manages out, “And,” he feels dumb for saying it but he figures he already looks pretty dumb in front of his assistant coach, “The cat,”

Becks is up in seconds and she’s back holding a bottle of water with Kit in her arms. She sits down on the floor next to Kent, doesn’t touch him but does slide Kit into his lap. 

Kit nuzzles against his chest and Kent manages to breathe in and out once, his breath hitches but he takes a sip of water and closes his eyes. 

“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” Kent says. 

“I didn’t think you were getting home until this afternoon,” Becks says. 

“Change of plans,” Kent laughs bitterly. 

He wipes the tears off of his face and then he’s hunched over and crying again. Kit nuzzles against his chest and he cries harder. She licks the tears off of his face and Kent laughs because it’s gross and Becks laughs because he’s laughing. 

“I should feed her,” Becks says. 

“I can do it,” Kent says and he stands up. 

And he walks to the kitchen and he opens the cupboard where he keeps the cat food and he opens the drawer where he keeps the can opener and he drops both of them. 

He jumps when he feels Becks’ hand on his back, she takes both out of his hand and opens the can for him. 

“Sit,” she points at the kitchen table, her voice is commanding and Kent listens and sits. 

“I’m making you tea,” she says as she empties the can into her dish. 

Whiskey wakes up on his couch with the taste of puke in his mouth. His head feels worse than any hangover he ever had at Samwell. 

“What time?” Whiskey says to no one in particular. 

Jari answers him to his surprise, “Little after 9, we’ve got three hours until practice,” Whiskey groans. 

“How do I get out of it,” he says. He just wants to lie on this couch, quite possibly for the rest of his life. 

“Nope, no can do, that’s the exchange for drowning your sorrows, gotta pay for it the next day at practice.”

“Right, my sorrows,” Whiskey says. He sighs, gets up, “I’m going for a run, I’ll pick up coffee and breakfast.”

“Jesus christ, Q,” Jari mumbles. 

“What?” Whiskey asks. 

“Nothing, fucking superman.”

Whiskey’s not superman. He just knows if he doesn’t run he’ll probably lose it. He swallows his feelings as he walks out the door. 

He won’t talk about it, not to Jari, not to anybody. He supposes he’ll have to tell Tango and Ford but that can wait. He’ll run and he’ll lift weights and he’ll scream when he’s alone if that’s what it takes. 

More and more rapidly, he’s convincing himself that he didn’t deserve someone as good as Kent in the first place. 

Becks sets down a mug of peppermint tea, it’s in an Aces mug. 

“Most guys I know wouldn’t keep their stuff after getting traded like you did.”

Kent shrugs, “Ownership can get fucked but I spent ten years tehre. What can I say, I’m sentimental.’

Becks clears her throat, “Parse I know you weren’t expecting me to be here when you got back and your business is your business and I won’t pry, but I can’t let you play tonight,” she says. 

“Coach,” he sighs. 

“Parson, morally, I can’t let you play after that. You need to get your head on straight or whatever.” 

“Or whatever,” Kent repeats and laughs. He wraps both his hands around the mug and brings it to his lips. 

“Or whatever,” Becks laughs in spite of herself. 

“We broke up,” Kent says. 

“Parson, I think I should tell you that I have absolutely zero people skills when it comes to relationship advice.”

“I just wanted you to know,” Kent says, “So you didn’t think it was something more serious. Y’know, it’s not like the end of the world.”

Becks shrugs, “I’m not gonna judge you for how you’re feeling, I just uh, I’m probably not someone who can give you advice or like, console you.”

“You made me tea,” Kent says, “I dunno, that helps.”

“How long were you together?” Becks asks. 

“Coming up on three years,” Kent lets out a shaky breath. 

“I’m sorry,” Becks says. 

“I went out there to try and fix… whatever was happening between us and he just,’ Kent holds a hand up gestures like he’s waving something away and sighs, “It’s complicated.”

After a moment of silence, Becks looks at her phone, “Look, I have to get to the rink for practice, I’m telling Robert you won’t be playing tonight, he’ll scratch you for an illness and everyone will think you just have the flu,” she looks at him, “but, I don’t feel comfortable leaving you on your own, is there someone you trust to come stay with you tonight?” she asks. 

Kent shakes his head, “Not in QC.”

She sighs. He runs through his list of friends in his head, it’s painfully short. Swoops is in Florida right now, Scraps is in Vegas, he won’t bother Kelli and the baby. He lands on the one person he knows who isn’t busy. 

“What if I call someone?” He asks. 

Becks nods, “Let me talk to them.”

So Kent hits the facetime button and he answers in less than three rings. 

“Kenny!” Jack says, “Crisse, you look awful.”

“Hey Zimms,” Kent says. 

Becks takes the phone from him. 

“Hi Jack, I’m Kent’s assistant coach, Rebecca Ryder.”

“Ouais, I definitely know who you are,” Jack laughs. 

“It’s a long story,” she says, “but I have a favour to ask. Kent won’t be playing tonight for mental health reasons. I don’t feel comfortable leaving him alone and I’m asking you to stay on the phone with him.”

“Kenny, are you okay?” Jack’s eyebrows fly up. 

“I’m fine, Zimms, rough couple days, I’ll explain.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, “Yeah I can do that.”

“Thank you,” Becks says matter of fact. And then she picks up her phone and pats Kit on the head and tells Kent she’ll call him later. 

Jack, from the looks of the facetime call is sitting in his office with his phone propped up on the desk. 

Whiskey wants to die. Every single part of his body is sore. Even though he’s only eaten half a breakfast sandwich and a medium coffee, his stomach churns. He’s tired all over, sore all over. He wants to throw up. 

“Keep up Whisk!” the coach shouts at him. 

So Whiskey moves his legs faster through the conditioning drill. 

“Hangover’s no excuse!” Coach shouts at him. 

Whiskey wants to cry. Not just from the exertion, but he’s had quite possibly the worst 24 hours in his entire life and he’s told nobody. There are no excuses. 

Coach congratulates him after practice. 

“Good effort, almost didn’t notice you sweating vodka out there.”

Whiskey laughs. 

“As long as you’re on the ice, kid.”

The team watches him take his painkillers after practice and not one of them says a single thing about it. 

“You don’t actually have to-” Kent starts, still looking at Jack. 

“Shut up,” Jack says, “You look like shit and I want to know why. Plus I’m not prepared to get on Rebecca Ryder’s bad side.”

Kent sighs, “Fine, but you don’t have to babysit me, just leave your phone on and do whatever the fuck it is you do.”

“You’re being difficult,” Jack says. 

“Yeah,” Kent answers. 

“So what did she mean by mental health issues?” Jack treads lightly. 

“I’m not going to go lie in traffic if that’s what you’re worried about. I had a panic attack.”

“Oh,” Jack says, “I didn’t know you-”

“Got those? Yeah, I have since the draft,” Kent says, and he’s trying not to sound bitter about it or place the blame on Jack. 

“Oh,” Jack says again. 

“Satisfied?” Kent asks

Jack just shrugs. 

“How’s your face?”

“Huh?” Kent asks and then he touches his fingertips to his mouth where it’s still a little raw. In worrying about Whiskey, he’d completely forgotten about his own injury. 

“Fine,” Kent says, “Barely noticed it if I’m being honest with you.”

“Wish I had your pain tolerance, man,” Jack says. 

Kent just rolls his eyes. 

“It’s true, I’m a baby, I get it from Papa.”

Kent picks up his phone and his tea and sits down on the couch. 

“Where’s Bittle?”Kent asks. 

“Kitchen,” Jack answers, “Recipe testing. I like to stay out of his hair when he really gets into it.”

Kent nods. He looks at Jack’s picture on the screen. It’s a little blurry but he gets a good look. He’s leaning back in his chair. He doesn’t really resemble the kid Kent had convinced himself he was in love with all those years ago. His eyes are clearer, his smile easier, his jawline more squared, baby fat almost entirely gone. His one crooked incisor tooth is all that really reminds Kent of the boy he loved so many years ago. And Kent needs to ask him something because it’s been bouncing around in his brain since yesterday, he bites his lip. 

“Do you think I’m over you?” he blurts. 

Jack looks taken aback, a pink flush creeps up his neck, “Kenny you… what does it matter, you’re with Whiskey?”

“Yeah, well I’m not anymore,” Kent snaps. 

“Oh god,” Jack says, “I-”

“Answer the question Zimms.”

“I mean you’re the only one who can say that, but we’re friends, aren’t we? And you seem pretty over it,” Jack says. 

“Yeah obviously I am that way, no offense you couldn’t pay me enough to date you again… but, what happened… do you think that,” Kent swallows, “Do you think there’s a possibility that I’m not over that yet.”

“Um,” Jack says. 

“You don’t have to,” Kent says, “Obviously you don’t owe anyone talking about it.”

Jack shakes his head, “You’re different, you were there.”

Kent swallows. 

“But yeah, I think I’d be more worried if you thought you were completely over it.”

Kent takes a deep shaky breath. 

“Are you alright?” Jack asks. 

Kent nods and takes a moment to collect himself. 

“Are you asking because…” Jack trails off. 

“Kenny, I’m so sorry,” Jack says. 

“I thought we agreed not to apologize to each other for that stuff,” Kent says. 

“I-” Jack says. 

“Zimms, you can’t tell anyone about me and Connor, okay? About what happened,” Kent feels close to tears, “But I need to tell someone, I can’t just hold it in.”

Shevs, Fisch and Jari are on the couch in the appartment, Whiskey takes the chair he has his legs draped over the side. Shevs is telling the boys about his new girlfriend and Whiskey laughs where appropriate, but it’s pretty clear that he’s miserable. There are bags under his eyes. 

“Okay but when do we get Whisk on Tinder,” Jari says after a silence. 

“Bro, it’s been like a day,” Fisch elbows Jari. 

Whiskey laughs but it doesn’t make him feel better. 

“I’ve never been on tinder.”

“Dude!” Shevs exclaims, “Missing out.”

So they spend the next half hour making Whiskey a tinder profile and all the guys assure him that he’s going to “pull mad bitches.”

He’ll probably never open it, he’ll definitely never switch his settings so men can see him too, even if that is what he’d want. 

“Fuck that girl,” Fisch says, “You’re about to be drowning in NHL pussy.”

“Dude that might not even happen.”

“The way you play?” Shevs asks, “Point per game? They have to have heads up their asses if they don’t see how you should be called up.”

“You’re gonna crush it.”

If Whiskey’s being honest he’s the one who feels like he’s being crushed. 

Kent tells Jack everything until he finally lands at where they started. 

“So was I being unreasonable? I get what he means, I swear I do… but aren’t I allowed to worry?”

Jack bites his lip, “You’re definitely allowed to worry. He doesn’t sound… well from how you described it, he doesn’t sound like he’s doing too great.”

Kent nods, “That’s why I went out in the first place and then I found the pills and then we just… I dunno, we got into that huge fight.”

“So it’s like a break-up break-up then?”

Kent nods, “Yeah.”

“Fuck Kenny, that sucks.”

“There’s something else he said, well implied at least. Do I have a ‘saving people’ thing?” 

“Uh,” Jack says, “Yeah definitely actually.”

Kent sighs, sinks deeper into the couch. 

“Kenny, there’s nothing you can do to help someone who won’t let you help him.”

“I know,” Kent says and then he laughs, “Why is it always you who gives me relationship advice.”

“Because all your friends are straight?” Jack asks, “And I know exactly how annoying it is to date you.”

And then they both laugh and it’s kind of what Kent needed in that moment. 

“Thanks, Jack,” Kent says, “You’re a good listener.”

They sit quietly, Jack still on the phone, Kent wrapped in a blanket watching shitty daytime TV (take his gay card away all you want but he can’t stand Wendy Williams) while Jack types something on his computer. 

Bittle walks into Jack’s office and sits on the edge of Jack’s knee. 

“Who’s on the phone, honey?” Bittle asks, “Heard y’all talkin’”

“Kent,” Jack answers. 

Kent is still unclear on whether or not Bitty hates him. 

“Oh!” Bitty sounds surprised, “What’s the occasion?” 

Jack looks awkward so Kent picks up the phone and looks at Bitty. 

“Well, to make a long story short, I flew to Michigan where I got broken up with, flew home and sat on the floor and screamed about it only to be discovered by my cat-sitter who is also my assistant coach who is also the scariest woman I have ever met so now I’m not allowed to play tonight and your boyfriend is my only friend who isn’t playing a National Hockey League game tonight.”

“Oh!” Bitty says, “ehm,” he clears his throat. 

“Jack’s a good babysitter,” Kent says. 

“Pardon me for being rude, but was it Connor?”

Kent bites his tongue and nods. 

“Hmm,” Bitty says, “I hope you know I can’t take sides.”

“Won’t ask that,” Kent says, “We’re all adults.”

Whiskey does not know the name of the girl whose ass is pressed against his dick, he does know that she smells nice and Jari and the rest of the boys are cheering him on from the bar.He has his hands on her hips while the music is pulsing all around them and he’s drunk, just pleasantly enough it feels like a good idea when she kisses him. It’s not, but he does it anyway. 

He does know that he looks the way he’s supposed to look. He’s acting how he’s supposed to act. 

Kent watches the Nordiques game on Facetime with Jack and Bitty, he’s quiet and Bitty’s polite enough not to pry. He does say, he feels a lot better than if he’d been left alone to wallow in his own feelings all day, and talking to Jack makes him feel better. 

“Ugh , I miss Snowy,” Bitty says, “He’s the only one who ever asked for pear jam.”

Kent snorts, “of course that’s how you remember people.”

“It’s memorable,” Bitty shoots back. 

“Pear jam does sound pretty good,” Kent admits. 

“Maybe I’ll send you some then, hon.”

“How is he?” Jack asks. 

“Well he kicks ass in net, but you already knew that,” Kent says. 

“I told George he’d be just as good as before ankle surgery, he’s a goalie, his ankle isn’t what holds him up,” Jack scoffs. 

“Your loss, our gain,” Kent smirks. 

Snowy makes a particularly good save and they all cheer for him together. 

Whiskey gets the girl’s number and goes home, for once Jari comes home with him. He lets himself take two of his tablets to help him get to sleep. 

The game is over and Kent can see Bitty starting to fall asleep on Jack’s chest. 

“You guys can go, I promise, I’ll survive.”

“Nah, Parse, I told you I’m not getting on Rebecca Ryder’s bad side.”

And in that moment, Rebecca Ryder barges through his door. 

Kent jumps because he didn’t expect her to still have the key. 

“Motherfucker,” Kent curses. 

“Just me,” Becks says, “Zimmermann,” she greets, “uh, thank you,” she says. 

“No problem,” Jack answers. 

“Uh, you’re a good friend.”

“Is this whole feelings thing physically painful for you?” Kent teases, “Talk to you later, Zimms,” Kent says and turns off his phone. 

Becks sits across from him in his big armchair, leaning forward. 

“I talked to Robert and your absence is excused, no questions asked. Some of the boys wanted to know where you were, they were informed you needed a health day. And Robert and I want to be the first to assure you that we don’t want there to be any shame in your mental health, but obviously we would not disclose that to the team. I’m the only one who knows the specifics of the situation,” Becks says. 

Kent nods. 

“Just like Robert and I don’t want there to be any shame in your mental health, we also want you to know that we can help you find whatever support or treatment you decide to seek out.”

“I know how to find a therapist, Becks, I’ve been before.”

Becks nods. 

“With your history I assumed,” Becks says. 

“The history of my first boyfriend almost dying in front of me,” Becks’ eyes go wide, “Sorry, I forget that not everyone knows that.”

“I am going to be honest, I assumed that too.”

Becks is a little bit robotic about it all, but Kent get the impression that she’s at least trying her hardest, that she practiced in the car on her way here. 

“We would like you to see someone, for your own sake,” Becks says, “However you like, but um, what happened this morning seemed serious and I can’t talk through the details of your personal situation with you, but you deserve someone to do that with you.”

“I’ll do that. Talking to Zimms helped, but he’s a friend. I know I should… yeah.”

“Good, in that case I can head ou-” she starts, but there’s a knock on the door. 

Kent stands up to open the door and sees Bobby and his wife standing on the front porch. 

“I brought soup,” Emily says and hands him an incredibly large tupperware container. 

“Uh,” Kent’s rendered speechless. 

“Bobby told me you didn’t come to the game, have you eaten dinner tonight?” she asks. 

“Well, no,” Kent suddenly realizes. 

“Let me heat this up then.” Emily pushes through the house and into his kitchen. 

“Sorry,” Bobby says, “She was born to mother.”

They both laugh. 

“It’s nice.”

Bobby looks from Kent to Becks, back to Kent. 

“So I take it it was something more serious than a cold?” Bobby asks. 

“I don’t have cancer if that’s what you’re implying,” Kent says. 

Bobby laughs but he does sound half relieved.

The door is still open when Mouse pokes his head through the door. 

“Hello?” His girlfriend is hovering behind him, “We brought muffins.”

“Come in?” Kent says more than a little confused, it’s nearly midnight. Mouse hugs him. 

“He’s not dying, Mickey,” Bobby says. 

“Oh thank god,” Mouse says but hugs Kent for an extra beat anyway. 

“I’m Lauren” Mouse’s girlfriend introduces herself. 

And then Snowy shows up, holding a jar of pear jam that, “I swear Bitty has nothing to do with,” 

And Danny with nothing but a friendly face and a get well soon card signed by his kids. 

And Barnesy and Jonesy fall in the door together holding a box of crackers and a block of mild cheddar cheese because, “We didn’t want to come empty handed. 

And Emily brings Kent soup and it also smells like she’s put two loaves of banana bread in the oven. And everyone sits in the living room and Bobby tells them he’s not dying the second they walk in the door, but the hugs don’t get any less tight. And he decides now is as good a time as any, with everyone gathered in his living room. It’s not his whole team, but it’s the guys he spends the most time with. 

“So there’s maybe a couple things I should say because you’ve all been like, ridiculously nice to me tonight.”

“You don’t need to say anything, Parse,” Bobby says. 

Kent shrugs, “Team’s family, right? You brought me soup, I can tell you why I wasn’t at the game tonight.”

Kent takes a bite of the soup, nods at Emily to show his appreciation even after thanking her incredibly profusely. 

“So the first thing is that I’m gay,” Kent says, he powers on, doesn’t pay attention to anyone’s reaction so he can get the rest out, “The second is that I flew out of town to see my boyfriend and we broke up, and when I got home I had a panic attack about it and Becks found me, and that’s why I wasn’t allowed to play tonight.”

A chorus of, “Holy shit, Parser,” and “Are you alright,” and “I’m so sorry,” and “pear jam always makes me feel better,” fills the room. And Mouse gives him another hug and Emily slices the banana bread and they all eat it with the jam and it’s 2am before everyone decides they have to head out. 

“Where did you all even get my address?” Kent asks Barnesy and Jonesy as they leave.

Barnesy answers, “Becks, she sort of said maybe we should visit.”

Becks is the last one in his house and she blushes. 

“Thank you,” Kent says and he means it, not having to face this day alone means more to him than he can say to her, “I feel bad for missing the game.”

“It’s just one game,” Becks says, “It’s important that our actions reflect our values and we can’t claim to value mental health and wellness and make you play when you’re in a bad state.”

“You sound like you’re reading a mission statement,” Kent says and he sticks his hands in his pockets, “But uh, even if it is a mission statement, I appreciate it. I was never out to my old team.”

“You’re the one who made that decision,” Becks shrugs. 

“It still means a lot, that I’m on a team that I can trust with that.”

Becks just shrugs, they’re both standing with their hands in their pockets. 

“And I know they‘re all good guys, but it definitely helps knowing that you’ve threatened to beat the shit out of them if they say anything dumb.”

Becks smiles. 

“Now that, I can always promise.”

Becks heads out and Kent goes to bed. He cries. Of course he cries. Too much happened today for him not to, but at least, at the very least, it wasn’t entirely bad. 

Whiskey rolls over in the middle of the night because his phone won’t stop buzzing. He groans and he’s sore but he turns on his phone and reads it. 

**Talia:** **I’m making arrangements for your stint in Detroit.**

And then he finds an email with the details of the callup, this is it. This is the _thing._ This is what he's been working for. He can’t tell the difference between terror and excitement anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings   
> whiskey is abusing his prescription painkillers but still does not acknowledge it as a problem. Kent has a panic attack. There is a coming out scene that goes well.   
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> i am avoiding my responsibilitiiiiessss. it's fine, i swear it's fine. also i am going to try to get better at responding to comments on here. i always see all the things you say and i'm like 'wow that was so sweet i should answer them!" and then i completely forget, but i do read all the comments (literally multiple times) and all of them are amazing, you're all quite literally the best, so thank you!  
> Also i love Becks, you can pry my women's hockey player ocs out of my cold dead hands, every check please fic needs one.


	18. should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a look inside Whiskey's head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from this woman's work by kate bush, content warnings in the end notes

“Whisk! Whisk! Whisk!” His teammates are chanting in the bar downtown that they frequent. 

They found out about the call-up on twitter and decided to go for drinks to celebrate after practice, one of the veterans raises his glass and the chanting dies down. 

“To the Quiet Guy,” he jokes, ‘We always knew you were too good for us, may you never return.”

Whiskey smiles and takes a swig of his beer while his teammates laugh. He’s been hearing a lot of the same thing over the past few days. Everyone’s happy for him, and they don’t want to see him back here again. It’s an expectation he has for himself, that he makes this work. But now he has another reason. He gets the impression that some of them might be jealous, not that they hate him for it, just that they wished they were getting the same shot. So he can’t let it slip away, because he has to prove he deserves it. 

He has some packing left to do and he does it when he gets home, drunk at one in the morning. Jari went home with a girl as usual and Whiskey knows he won’t sleep tonight. So he packs. 

He doesn’t pack everything, not yet, he doesn’t know how permanent his NHL spot is going to be, but he packs most of his clothes in a duffel bag and puts his suits in dry cleaning bags. He has his laptop stashed away and wrapped in an old Samwell sweater to keep it safe in his backpack. His movements are slow and he keeps getting distracted, but packing isn’t hard, he can do it drunk. 

It’s the personal things he has to decide about, whether he wants to hotel room they’re going to stick him in to have a picture of Whiskey, Tango and Ford at the pond on the nightstand, or if he wants to keep it anonymous. 

He does put the framed photo in his backpack, despite the fact that he hasn’t said anything to either of them in two weeks. There’s a fidget cube on his desk, he used to play with it while he did his homework and he considers bringing it with him and then he remembers it was a gift. From Kent. Kent had given it to him after he noticed how he always clicked a pen while he was working on something, how it had felt so thoughtful at the time. And now Whiskey doesn’t want to look at it, the lime green plastic makes him want to scream or cry or both. He opens his desk drawer and drops it in. There’s a skate lace in the drawer. Whiskey has never thought of himself as particularly sentimental but now he realizes that he might be, sitting in this room with a million things that remind him of Kent. 

Kent was the hoodie thief in the relationship, but there’s a Las Vegas Aces hat hanging on the hook on the back of his door, he didn’t even realize he’d taken it from Kent until now, it was just a part of his room, a part of his life. He tears it off the hook. Throws it at his desk. There’s a note, a love letter written on a sticky note. Kent had left it in the front pocket of his backpack one day after a visit at Samwell. 

_ There is not a part of my heart that doesn’t have your name written on it.  _

Whiskey crumples it up and throws it on the pile. 

And the jersey. How could he forget the fucking jersey. He tears it out of his closet and then drops it immediately, like it burns. Like he remembers too hard how overwhelmed he had been when he found it waiting for him. How this all started as a crush, how he had hoped for Kent like he had never hoped for anything before. He can’t pick it up, he just kicks it behind his dirty laundry pile. 

“Fuck love,” he mutters to himself. 

Love is just a way to get hurt, love is just a way to hurt someone else. 

Maybe Jari has the right idea. He calls it the three date rule, “never go on more than three dates with her unless I’m literally going to marry her.” It works for him. 

He would have married Kent, any time. Without even thinking about it. Maybe that’s why love sucks, because you do things without really thinking about them. 

He slams his desk drawer shut and with it all the things that Kent gave to him, all the things he can’t get rid of. Except for the note, he snatches the note out at the last minute and stuffs it into the front pocket of his backpack. 

Kent is good. Kent is going to be fine. Whiskey won’t text him or call him, but he can keep the note. He can look at the sloping scrawl of his handwriting and then he can fall asleep. 

Someone drops his things off at the hotel in Detroit while he gets driven to practice. It feels like he blinks and then he’s on the ice getting introduced. 

The coach doesn’t like him. Or he’s just a hard-ass, Whiskey can’t tell yet. But it does give him a reason to skate harder and faster. No one congratulates him for a job well done after practice. The team veterans don’t really talk to him, they stick together and all the guys near the bottom of the lineup are paranoid about Whiskey taking their jobs. He gets pulled out of the locker room by the trainers. 

He sits in their offices on the edge of a chair. 

“So Jeremy sent an email. How’s the shoulder?” the trainer asks. 

Whiskey tries to pick his words carefully, “I’m on a painkiller for it, it doesn’t really interfere with my game.”

The trainer nods, “He stressed the importance of keeping you on the ice.”

“I really don’t want to be taking time off.”

The trainer agrees, “That’s best for the team.”

“Do you know how long…” Whiskey trails off. 

He’s here to replace the third line centre who got carted off the ice with a broken leg last week, as long as he’s out, Whiskey has a place in the lineup. 

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

Whiskey nods, “Sorry.”

The guy shrugs, “So, we can keep you on your current painkiller. Jeremy also let me know that you’ve had cortisone shots before,” the trainer says. 

Whiskey nods, although he didn’t actually know what was in the shots they gave him, just that they helped during the game and made the flare-ups way worse the next day. 

“So you’re comfortable with injected painkillers?”

Whiskey nods, “Whatever it takes.”

The trainer ticks a box on his computer screen.

“Is there anything you need from me?” the trainer asks. 

Whiskey shakes his head. 

There’s another bottle of painkillers waiting for him in his stall before the first game. He quickly notices that he’s not the only one nursing an injury. The vets are held together by KT tape and he sees someone knock back a pill with a swig of water. He slips the yellow pill bottle into his equipment bag, not before he takes one. 

Whiskey has chemistry on the ice with everyone. He doesn’t quite know how or why he can do it, but he’s adaptable. Other people have always liked playing on a line with him because he knows where to be. His first game is no different. The NHL is obviously a big step up, but he makes it through the game in one piece and he makes it back to the locker room without throwing up and the Wings get their first win in a week and Whiskey can’t help but smile as the captain tells him he “played good.”

And then he goes back to his hotel room. Alone. Everything about Detroit becomes about being alone. Sure, he has a team, but not friends. And maybe that’s on purpose. He can’t really tell. 

He talks to the rink manager at the Red Wings practice facility and an assistant coach and gets a copy of the weekly schedule, a key, and permission to use the ice whenever it’s not booked. So he’s there whenever he can be, just working on his skills, on his skating. 

And it pays off. He gets his first (non-exhibition) NHL goal in his second game. He’ll insist it was a lucky shot for the rest of his life. He’s proud of himself for half a second and then he goes back to obessising over how he needs to be better on his next shift. 

He spends Halloween working on his shot. There are parties he can go to, the team’s hosting a couple and his invite was implied. But Whiskey doesn’t think he’s earned that yet. 

He likes all the messages in the SMH groupchat of his friends sending pictures of their costumes, Shitty and Lardo are the geese from that game everyone was playing a while ago. Whiskey thinks Bitty is a character from a musical and Jack is a character from (maybe the same???) musical. Ford is a cat, Tango is a vampire, Chowder and Farmer are zombies and Dex is the guy from ratatouille while Nursey is in fact, a rat. He doesn’t say anything in the groupchat, nor does he send his current outfit of sweatpants, a hoodie and his hockey gloves. 

The week before Thanksgiving, he thinks he might be in the best shape of his life. Which makes sense, because all he does is skate, and go to the gym and run by the river and skate some more and eat and play and sleep when he can’t keep his eyes open. 

It’s about momentum. He feels like he’s on a hair trigger, like any moment of silence and inactivity is going to be what sends him over the edge. If he sits with his own thoughts he’ll think about Kent, or he’ll think about the fact that he’s hurt or the fact that he hasn’t really talked to his friends in a month. He’ll think about how insurmountable this all feels. How one thing going wrong could end it all

He doesn’t have to feel it if he just keeps pushing.

The thing is, no one cares that he’s hurt. They’re all hurt, they care that he’s playing. And oh boy, is he ever playing. He’s playing so well. He feels like he could run through a wall every time he gets on the ice and people notice. He reads headlines about himself like,  _ Undrafted Phenom, Connor Whisk could be just what the Red Wings needed,  _ and  _ Where did he come from, why the Red Wings were right to bring Whisk.  _ He also reads headlines about trades, and honestly, those don’t upset him as much as he thinks they should. So what if they send him somewhere else, it’s not like he has any real attachment to Detroit. 

He sits by the river the night before Thanksgiving. He’s really only stopping for a breath and to take his pulse on his jog but then he looks across the river and he sees the lights on the other side and he feels small and it’s beautiful and for the first time in months he takes a breath. 

And it comes rushing in, that he’s alone in this. And he tells himself that that’s fine. He’s been alone before. 

And then he thinks about something he hasn’t thought about in years. 

When he was 17, his coach died. In an accident at a hockey tournament in Minnesota. But it wasn’t the car accident that terrified him. It was the fact that he had been alone, the fact that Whiskey and his girlfriend had been in a hotel room waiting for him to come back with the tournament details and a pizza. It was the fact that Whiskey hadn’t known he was gone until hours after he was gone when he was sitting on the floor holding Rachel while she scream-sobbed, because she didn’t lose a coach she lost her favourite uncle. 

And Whiskey remembers how he just went cold as all those thoughts just rushed into his head. And he remembers being alone in the months after. He remembers wanting to give up. And he remembers telling Kent what had happened when he was young but not fully how it had made him feel. 

And he picks up a rock and he hurls it at the water as hard as he can. 

Because he has fucking everything. He has the opportunity to have everything. And he still can’t do it right. His dad used to tell him there was no point in doing something unless it was done the right way. 

And he laughs, because he’s too old to blame his problems on his dad. This is all on him now. 

The shots make the pain go away during the games but they don’t make it disappear entirely, it’s more like they postpone it. It comes the next morning or that night or the next day at dinner and he writhes around in his hotel bed until his pills kick in. He just learns to deal with the perpetual foggy head, the drowsiness, the nausea. It’s in exchange for the goals and the glory. 

The SMH groupchat lights up during all of his games and so does the  _ Legends Only  _ groupchat with Ford and Tango. Ford’s  **we heard about Kent, let us know if you need to scream,** text gets buried by a discussion about how great his backhand is. Whiskey answers those texts. 

He still talks to Shevs and Fisch and Jari, plays video games with them when they all have time. Whiskey bought a playstation for his hotel room because he was bored and that’s just something he can afford to do now if he wants. 

His, “Quiet Guy,” nickname sticks in Detroit and he’s okay with being a mystery to the team. No one really steps on his toes and he likes it that way. 

The Coach calls him into his office the day after Thanksgiving, during morning skate. Being called into someone’s office never feels good, no matter how long it’s been since he’s had to deal with the concept of the principal’s office. 

“Connor,” the coach greets him. The general manager is there and Whiskey swallows a lump in his throat. He braces for the worst before he notices that they’re both smiling. 

“So Ben’s back as you know,” the coach says. 

Whiskey nods. 

“But,” the coach says and Whiskey perks up, “We like your effort and your production is higher than we could have imagined it would be. We want to keep you around. Ben might be back but the third line centre spot is yours to earn Whisk.”

Whiskey tries not to act too impressed. Act like you’ve been here before, that’s everyone’s advice. So he keeps a stoic impression and looks at the Coach and the GM and says, 

“I’ll make myself worth it.”

The GM snorts, “You only make 700 grand, you’ve already proved you’re worth it. Prove you should stay here. You know Talia,” right, he adds the last part on at the end. 

“Yeah, she’s great,” Whiskey says. 

“She’ll get in contact with you about moving somewhere a little more permanent.”

So he does. He goes back to his hotel after the morning skate to get his suit on and eat and he doesn’t let himself get too excited. 

“You’ve been here before,” he says to himself in the mirror. He’ll do this. 

Hockey is a team sport which, yeah, obviously. He knows chemistry is his most important asset but he also knows that the things he’s been doing in isolation are the things that are keeping him here. He’ll work to maintain and he’ll work to get better, no matter how many pairs of bloody socks he has to throw out. He’ll score a fucking goal tonight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning  
> whiskey is still misusing his painkillers, this behaviour is tolerated and borderline encouraged by his team and training staff, there are also mentions of death and grief and just general incredibly poor mental health  
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> this chapter was shorter than the last two but i hope you enjoyed anyway. it was also mostly just thought but yeah, whiskey's very in his own head rn


	19. No mattеr how hard I try to convince myself to hate you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent can't find it in himself to hate Whiskey, he just can't

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a very very very short kent chapter and then back to the regularly scheduled whiskey POV

The Nordiques play the Red Wings on December 2nd. Kent only remembers because he set a reminder in his phone. It was supposed to be to remind him to plan a date. Now it just makes him want to scream. The reminder goes off while the Nords are on the plane and he clenches his fist in his seat. 

He used to hate traveling. It just meant sitting quietly while Swoops snored and Carly told some kind of fucked up story. But now he hears the soft sound of Danny’s voice while he tries to teach the rookies some french. He hears the laughter from a game of Go Fish and Mouse sits next to him. He looks at Kent quizzically. 

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

Kent nods. It occurs to him that he could tell tell Mouse that he’s just a little motion sick but he trusts him so he says, “Just uh, got a reminder from my calendar app to plan a date with the ex.”

Mouse just frowns. Kent hasn’t told any of them that “the ex” is Whiskey and they’re going to play him in a few weeks time. He knows that’s the one thing he has to keep to himself, because Whiskey’s business isn’t his to share, no matter how much Kent is wrapped up in Whiskey’s business. 

His teammates are good for him, all in different ways. Mouse is just happy to be around, he never minds sitting with Kent doing nothing just so Kent doesn’t have to be alone. Danny’s good for a drink and a round of poker before a basketball game and Barnesy and Jonesy invite Kent over every Sunday to watch football. Gordo’s good for a conversation where he unknowingly tells Kent exactly what he needs to hear. And Snowy’s always down to stay a while after practice and just screw around so Kent can practice his lacrosse goal. 

It’s good to be distracted but it doesn’t keep him from looking at Whiskey’s scoresheets. He keeps himself from watching the games most of the time. He knows he got called up, he knows he stayed up. He knows he’s scoring like crazy, knows he’s playing hard. He’s trying not to care. Because he got broken up with, but he does still care. Despite himself, he still loves Connor Whisk. 

And he’s still afraid. Because Whiskey equates playing well to being well and Kent knows he’ll take this as a sign that whatever he’s doing is fine and good if it keeps him on the ice. 

Whiskey said it was the pills that set Kent on edge, because they reminded him of Jack. And he was right, at least a little bit. Kent talks about it with the therapist. And it’s Jack but it’s also his first few years in the league. 

Kent was lucky to stay healthy but he got to Vegas at a time when there were a lot of older players, a lot of injuries and a lot of pills in the locker room. Kent watched guys ruin marriages over painkillers, watched guys quietly end their own careers with a pill problem and he saw all that and couldn’t do anything. He saw them taking a lot worse than their own medications too. There’s a lot of trouble a millionaire under 30 can get to in Las Vegas.

And Kent has about a million feelings about Whiskey, he’s bitter and he’s angry and he still cries about it, and in spite of it all he’s still in love. But he keeps thinking about what Jack said,  _ you can’t help someone who won’t help himself.  _

When they land in Florida, Whiskey’s already on the ice. Kent can’t help that he already memorized his schedule. Kent really fucking likes playing on a line with Mouse. He doesn’t think he’s ever skated with someone who can keep up with him. Kent saw someone on twitter calling them the pocket line, since Mouse, Kent and their left winger, Gabe Tremblay are all under 6 feet tall. Kent thinks it’s kind of funny. What’s even funnier is how often they’re on the eyes with Jonesy and Barnesy who are 6’3” and 6’5” respectively. Kent grins thinking about it while he takes the faceoff. 

“Parse!” Tremblay shouts calling for a pass, Kent protects the puck from a defenseman and sends it across the ice to Tremblay. 

Tremblay takes his shot, but the Panthers goalie makes the save and Kent skates to the bench. 

Becks is standing behind Robert, Robert’s giving instructions to the next line to get out, gives them a tap on the back of the helmets while Becks leans down to talk to Mouse, giving him a little bit of instruction, moves on to Tremblay, telling him how to pick his shots better but telling him it was a good call for a pass. Kent gets a solid, “Nice pass,” and then she stands up straight again, hands behind her back. 

Kent walks back into the dressing room between periods. He doesn’t often check his phone, not since Whiskey stopped texting him after he got off the ice. But he does today. 

He’s laughing along with his teammates, nobody’s scored yet but they have time. 

He unlocks his phone. 

It’s fucked up that the first thing he things when he sees Whiskey writhing on the ice is, “Thank god I don’t have to play him in December.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	20. Get up underneath the lights until you feel adored

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whiskey has a concussion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings are in the end notes  
> titile is from nobody knows that im a fraud by grace petriefp

Whiskey feels like he’s been holding his breath for the past hour. He wants to scream, or cry but his ears are ringing. All he can do is sit there in the dim light of the trainer’ office while he waits for them to tell him what he’s already pretty sure he knows. 

He’d tried to act stoic and like everything was fine while they’d examined him, but there’s really no way to fake not having a concussion. 

The hit was dirty, there was no question about it, but it didn’t necessarily seem like it was on purpose. No one means to shove someone so hard that they go headfirst into the boards. Whiskey remembers grabbing the side of his head and curling in on himself for a minute, he remembers blacking in and out while they took him to the dressing room. He’s sitting on a chair in the corner while the team doctor and trainer talk outside. 

They don’t care that keeping him off the ice is going to ruin this whole thing. 

“Alright Connor,” the doctor says, “I’ll be brief, you have a mild concussion.”

Whiskey groans and slumps further in the chair. 

“What’s that mean for me.”

“Well, you might experience nausea or dizziness.”

“No I mean. Hockey. How long am I out.”

“One week and then you can practice with the team again, we’ll assess from there.”

Whiskey feels nauseous but he’s pretty sure it’s not the concussion. 

“It’s only three games, you’ll only miss the California road trip,” the trainer pipes in. 

Three games is a lifetime to Whiskey. 

“I’m asking you to keep physical activity to a minimum, no skating, light workouts are fine. It’s nothing severe.”

Whiskey sighs, “So I can’t talk you out of this?”

“As it stands you only have a mild concussion and since you’ve never been concussed before, you’ll be able to bounce back fairly quickly one you’ve recovered. If you don’t take the time to recover, you run a very large risk of much more intense brain damage.”

Whiskey squeezes his eyes shut, “Yeah okay.”

They go over a few things. He promises to stay away from his phone and computer and sleep. 

He doesn’t talk to the team before he leaves, gets driven home to the new one bedroom apartment that he still hasn’t unpacked and he falls face first into his bed. He’s just glad they didn’t ask about his shoulder. 

He keeps the lights off as he gets ready for bed. Showers in the dark and pulls his pajamas out of the suitcase he hasn’t unpacked yet in the dark. He is dizzy, and a little bit nauseous and he’s tired. So he just sleeps. 

They didn’t tell him how lonely having a concussion was going to be. The sun hurts his head so he doesn’t go outside to jog in the morning like he normally does, instead he does an ab circuit on his living room floor and sleeps on the couch. His phone is even worse so he doesn’t do anymore than answer Ford and Tango with a quick, “I’m okay, concussion, talk when i don’t want to cut my head off,” and his mother with a slightly lengthier, “it looked worse than it was but I’m out for a week to make sure everything’s fine. Talk when i feel better :)” His father doesn’t text. 

Whiskey finds himself on the floor a lot, as his ears start ringing and his head starts pounding, he kind of just melts off of whatever piece of furniture he’s sitting on and lays there. 

He fills his days with naps, the most human interaction is with the UberEats guy every night because cooking also makes him feel like he’s pounding rocks with his head. 

He has to get through it. He just has to make the week melt away. So he sleeps and he takes his pills to help him get to sleep, because in addition to the concussion, he’s pretty sure his shoulder is flaring up again. 

“It’s about maintenance,” he finds himself muttering on Wednesday, the third day of his concussion induced imprisonment while he’s on the floor finishing some kind of pilates video that he found on YouTube. 

It’s not the being alone that makes him feel like he’s breaking. He’s fine with that, he likes being alone, even. It’s the darkness, the fact that he has to draw his curtains to keep the sunlight from leaking in, that the days just start to blend together, he just grits his teeth through the headaches and the shoulder pain. 

It occurs to him on Thursday that he hasn’t spoken out loud in two days. He clears his throat just to make sure he still can. 

He watches the Red Wings games, he can manage the TV if he turns the brightness down and doesn’t look at it directly. And he should be there. 

Fuck he should be there. If he kept his head up… if he’d been a little faster to get out of the way. 

He puts his hand in his head as he hears the goal horn in Anaheim go off and he groans. Connor Whisk knows how to do one thing. He’s spent the better part of two decades learning how to do it really well. And now he’s just… not. And he knows that this is temporary, that he’ll be back on the ice by next Tuesday at practice and he’ll just keep working, but getting pulled off the ice made him feel destructible in a way he didn’t think he was. 

Because at any point, this could all end. This could all end and he’d have nothing. Whiskey’s worst isolated habit becomes listening to sports talk radio while he ignores the text messages and DMs that are piling up. His trainer actually recommended it for the recovery, “you’re going to go out of your mind bored,” he had said, “try a podcast or the radio or something like that.”

So Whiskey uses an app on his phone to find one of Detroit’s sports stations and spends his days listening to the radio hosts drone on and on and on. In all his 24 years, he has not once thought about the Detroit Pistons for more than thirty seconds at a time, by Friday he can name every player and the exact specifics of their contract negotiations. He laughs when he hears the hosts of the afternoon football show groaning about how the Lions haven’t won a championship since 1957. He grew up an Arizona Cardinals fan, he can handle living in a city that hasn’t won a superbowl in 70 years. 

The first time he laughs in maybe a week is when one of the basketball show hosts does an impression of the coach. It’s pathetic, really. It’s his own mistake, honestly, not to change the station every night at seven when the Red Wings specific show comes on. He hears the intro and every night he leaves it on. The first few times he listens and they really only talk about the big names. They let listeners call in and there’s one really angry one on Tuesday who says they need to trade their captain. The Wings lose on Wednesday by a lot and the listeners get angrier. 

But he doesn’t hear his own name until Saturday night. He’s laying on the couch with his eyes closed, a pillow under his head, trying to get through a small headache. 

And someone says his name and he squeezes his eyes shut even tighter. 

“So what do we think of Connor Whisk?” the first host says, Whiskey can almost imagine the conversation while they were preparing for the show,  _ “hey, we don’t have anything else to talk about, why don’t we talk about this kid who’s clearly a fucking bust.” _

“I mean, do we think about Connor Whisk?” the other host laughs.

The first host joins in, “In all seriousness, it’s gotta suck for that guy.”

“Oh for sure.”

“It’s a good story if he’s alright, for sure. Kid goes undrafted, spends four years playing Division I, gets his degree and then signs with an AHL team, absolutely tears it up down there and gets an opportunity to make the show.”

“And then he gets hurt.” Whiskey clenches his jaw.

“And then he gets hurt, exactly.”

“So what do we think of him?” 

“I think he’s a solid third line centre, I can’t really see him being more than that.”

“I think on a team like the Red Wings, which sorry folks, we’re all fans, he could crack the second line, but on a better team, he’s third or fourth at best.”

He clenches his fist, feels like they’re right. 

One of the hosts laughs a little, “Are we really going to do a segment on Connor Whisk?”

“Well what else is there to talk about?”

“Ah true, true.”

“Alright, I’m pulling up his stats page, and man, this guy has a weird trajectory. He’s from Arizona!” he says it like it’s unimaginable. 

“Not many hockey players from down south, huh.”

“Can’t imagine,” the other host continues, “So he plays some minor hockey in Arizona but when it’s time to get serious, he makes the trek to Minnesota and plays in tournaments, gets invites to junior leagues up north, turns them down.”

“Now that’s weird, that feels like a red flag.”

“Could be, could be. The bigger red flag is the one game he played with the US National Team Development Program and then he dropped off the face of the earth for a year and shows up at Samwell University when he finally shows up again.”

“Is this a Jack Zimmermann situation?”

“Jack Zimmermann but not nearly as good.”

And they both laugh. 

Whiskey laughs with them, bitterly. There’s a part of him that wants to turn it off to say, “those are assholes and they don’t know me or who I am,” and be done with it, but the bigger part of him, the part that’s only been growing in his dark apartment says that they’re right. That he should have tried harder, he should have played in the OHL instead of the USHL, that the tournament circuit he played was a waste of time. That he’s one red flag after another. 

And he just keeps listening, their voices droning on and on eventually becoming background to the ringing in his ears. With all the things he won’t let himself think about, he decides that this one is fine. He’ll prove them wrong, prove himself wrong. And he won’t think about Kent. 

On Sunday he decides to start unpacking some things. He gets his clothes put away and his room set up, takes the cardboard boxes to the garbage room on his floor, decides that it’s a good sign that the lights in the hallway don’t immediately split his head open. He picks his backpack up, takes his laptop out and sets it on the dresser. He’s looking for his extra phone charger when his hand grazes against the paper. 

It’s the lime green sticky note, Kent’s handwriting, crumpled from when he threw it in the backpack pocket.  _ There is not a part of my heart that doesn’t have your name written on it.  _

This would all be so much easier if Whiskey didn’t still want him. To call him, to hold him, just to feel less alone. But he can’t. Because he’s still angry and he’s pissed that Kent doesn’t get it, he’s supposed to get it. He’s the one who broke up with Kent, he’s the one who said,  _ yeah,  _ when Kent said,  _ did we just break up?  _ He can’t be the one who misses him, he can’t feel like this. 

He’s got enough awareness to admit that maybe the pills aren’t the best for him. Best case scenario he’d be rehabbing his shoulder and coming back when he was at 100%, but he doesn’t have time for best case scenarios. He can only do the best with what he has. And he knows he doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter to this team or this organization, he’s replaceable, they’re not going to wait three months for a third line centre to fix his shoulder when they could so easily just bury him in the minors and find someone else who can do exactly the same things Whiskey can. It's not like he's crushing shit up and snorting it. A doctor gave it to him, a doctor told him it was okay, the doctors want him to be able to play just as badly as he wants himself to play.

He looks down at the sticky not, still in his hands and runs his fingers over Kent’s sloping scrawl, the way he never dots his lowercase “i”s and the strange way that his “t”s and “h”s run together. Whiskey can have this. Because he can want Kent, he decides that that’s fine, as long as he doesn’t drag Kent back into his own mess. 

He gets on the ice on Tuesday morning and it’s a relief. The cold air fills his lungs and his head is mostly clear and he had a nightmare last night that he’d forget how to skate that he quickly proves wrong. 

He has strict orders not to overdo it. He won’t let himself get hurt again, he can’t do that again. 

He isn’t cleared to play until their Saturday game, but at least he’s allowed to practice, at least he’s allowed to skate. He has to keep skating. 

And he bounces back. God does he bounce back. He comes out on Saturday and scores a goal, he adds two assists on the next game, and another the next one. The Red Wings are still, to put it bluntly, pretty fucking bad, but Whiskey, Whiskey feels good. 

The only problem is that he only feels good when he’s on the ice, about to be on the ice or for the five minutes after he’s just come off the ice. So he’s on the ice every chance he gets, and his game is better for it. They ask for him in media availability, he gets bumped up to the second line. And the shots they give him before games make him feel like he has superpowers.

And this is what he wanted. By all measures, he’s living his dream. He’s popular with the media because he’s straightforward. His team likes him because sometimes he can keep them in a game that they really have no business winning. And he goes to the bar and the clubs with them and he laughs and he smiles and he has increasingly meaningless one night stands with girls who just want to be able to tell their friends they fucked a Detroit Red Wing.

And then he’s alone and there’s nothing to do and he wakes up in the middle of the night with a strange ache in his arm or in his chest and he throws up and tries to go back to sleep but he’s to awake so he just runs and refuses to answer his texts with more than a sentence and he  _ knows  _ he’s being an asshole and he  _ knows  _ his friends probably hate him but he has to keep playing and no one can know how much he’s fighting himself to keep up. He wants people to think he works hard, but exactly how hard? That’s something he’ll keep to himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings  
> more general references to whiskey developing a problem with pills, general themes of isolation and a general sense of gloom  
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> So i feel like this chapter is kind of Not Great lmao, i think i write dialogue better than, like, actual prose, and i decided that i was going to have my main character isolate himself from the people who talk to him, a genius move, way to go me, truly just a fucking genius. either way, i hope you enjoyed it


	21. I crash my car 'cause I wanna get carried away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something's gotta give

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from i wanna get better by bleachers.  
> cw in end notes

The worst thing is that Whiskey would ask for help if he thought there was any help to be had. He’s not stupid, he knows that he’s doing bad, he knows that he’s getting worse. He knows that it’s not good to be the last one in the practice facility every night without fail, to hurt all over until he swallows one of his pills dry. He knows it’s bad to not know what to do with himself when he’s not playing hockey. 

But who would help him? Why would they help him? When he has everything he’s ever wanted. 

The snow comes and it’s nice, it reminds him of Massachusetts and it keeps him from getting nostalgic about the winter breaks he spent in Las Vegas with Kent. He’s heading to the rink with a coffee in his hand, a brown scarf over his grey overcoat. His phone buzzes on the way in through the rink. He smiles as soon as he feels the cool air and smells the ice. He takes a sip of his coffee, likes a meme that Ford had sent to the groupchat and carries on. 

If you looked at Whiskey, you wouldn’t be able to tell. He answers his friends texts and he cracks jokes with the team. He smiles, he’s relaxed and he’s fourth on the Detroit Fucking Red Wings in scoring. He’s living the dream and he does his best to look like it. 

It’s when you’re not allowed to look at him that you’d know something’s wrong, the way he hunches in on himself when he walks through the door to his apartment, the way the bags under his eyes get deeper when he stops smiling. 

Right now though, you wouldn’t know. He walks into the players lounge for their brief strategy meeting before they head to the airport and get on their flight to Columbus, he sits on the edge of the couch drinking his coffee. A couple of his teammates are yawning, most of them are on their phones and it’s the same on the plane, a couple guys sleeping, most of them just sitting quietly, some laughter from the back. 

Whiskey’s roommate is an older guy, John Layne. He’s been in the league for almost as long as Whiskey’s been alive, he cracks a joke about it. 

“You’re important enough, you could have got your own room,” Whiskey says as they check in. 

“Ah, I roomed alone for a while, but I realized I like the company,” Layner says. 

“Makes sense,” Whiskey says, “Which bed do you want.”

“I always take the one by the window,” Layner sets his bag down. 

“Cool, I’m not picky,” Whiskey says, “I’m gonna take a nap,” Whiskey says, takes off his overcoat and scarf and flops into the bed. 

“Yeah go for it, I’m going to hang out with B-Dog and Tyson.”

“Cool,” Whiskey mumbles into the pillow. 

He lets out a massive groan the second he hears the door click. His shoulder flared up on the plane, his pills were in his carry on but it hurt too much to get up and go get them. Now it’s too late to take one if he wants them to give him a shot before the game. God he feels nauseous just thinking about the stupid fucking shots. They started to make his stomach churn after the first four or five rounds and it’s getting worse. 

He ends up on his knees in the bathroom barfing up his morning coffee. 

He doesn’t know what he’s doing before he dials the number. He hears it ringing and he can’t hang up now. 

“Connor?” She answers. 

He hasn’t actually talked to Rachel in months, figured she was busy and he was busy and he didn’t want to bother her. 

“Rach,” he says, and he realizes he sounds out of breath. 

“Uh, what’s up?”

“I was just uh, just wondering. Nausea? How should I treat that?”

“Dude what?”

“Like if I’m nauseous, how do I make it stop?”

“Do you have like, food poisoning.”

“Don’t think so.”

“Okay, well,” Rachel starts, “Wait you realize I changed my major to public health, I’m not in like, doctor school anymore, right?”

“I’m sure they covered nausea in your first year classes.”

“Ha-ha,” he hears her blow out a breath, knows she’s blowing a hair out of her face, “there’s the classic grandma combo of gingerale and saltines, if you’re like actually throwing up then you should be making sure you rehydrate, so lots of water. Gatorade’s probably a better bet for you since you’re literally about to play a hockey game. Honestly, Con, it depends on what’s causing it.”

“I guess I just feel kinda rotten,” Whiskey’s voice is small. 

“Are you sure.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure what’s going on.”

“Well nausea can be caused by a lot of shit, if you’re anxious, it you ate something fucked up, i dunno, have you liked any raw chicken breasts recently?”

Whiskey snorts. 

“Or if you’re on any meds, some of the side effects might be nausea.”

“Uh,” Whiskey says, “Yeah I don’t think it’s that.”

“Okay,” Rachel says, “So how are you?”

“Nauseous, we went over that,” Whiskey says, “What about you.”

“I’m getting ready to head home, my exams are pretty much done, I have a paper to write but I can just finish that at home.”

“Sick,” Whiskey says, “Okay, I gotta go, but remind me to call you again so we can catch up.”

“Yeah, you got it,” she says, “Just one thing, you know you could have googled the thing about being nauseous right?”

“Uh,” Whiskey says, “Didn’t occur to me.”

“Dumbass,” Rachel says in the most loving way you can call someone a dumbass. 

“Talk to you later,” Whiskey says. 

“Later.”

He fills one of the hotel paper cups with water from the bathroom sink and sits on the edge of his bed sipping it slowly. He takes a breath and groans. The pain in his shoulder is sharp when he moves or twists the wrong way but everywhere else is just dull, he aches. He wants to lay down, possibly for the rest of his life, but definitely at least for the rest of the night. He can’t though.He sets his phone alarm for an hour from now and falls back against the pillow. He tosses and turns, smothers himself with the extra pillow and when his arm goes off an hour later, he’s still wide awake. 

He finds Layner in a hotel room playing Fortnite with some of the younger guys, they’re all laughing, Whiskey leans against the door. 

“Bus heads out in 15,” Larner says after Whiskey’s been standing there for five minutes. 

He gets up, “I gotta grab my phone,” Layner says. 

Whiskey nods, “I left my tie back there,” Whiskey says. 

They head back to the hotel room together.. 

“Yo,” Whiskey says, “You’ve been around a while.”

“I’m old, in other words,” Layner says. 

“You ever have an injury that just won’t totally go away?”

Layner snorts, “All the time, kid.”

“What do you do about it?”

“Just hold it together, I had knee surgery last offseason. Always wait ‘til the offseason for shit like that, you know? Team’s depending on you, just take whatever they give you to keep it together unless it’s literally going to kill you,” Layner laughs and ties his dress shoes. 

“Ha, yeah,” Whiskey says, “Makes sense.”

“So like, hypothetical, or…?”

“Shoulder’s just weird today.”

“Ah, it’ll pass. Or you’ll get used to it. Part of the deal right? Tough it out?”

“For sure,” Whiskey says and he ties his tie. 

Whiskey toughs it out, he’s been toughing it out, he’ll keep toughing it out. He has to. He shifts in his seat on the bus, all he can think about is the painkillers he’s about to get at the arena. They get off the bus and Whiskey smiles for the camera that follows the team around most of the time. He takes off his overcoat and his suit in the locker room and puts on his underarmour. He heads over to the trainers, hops up onto the examination table with a groan. 

“Any weird symptoms?” he asks. 

Whiskey shakes his head. 

“Like, headaches, diarrhea, nausea? Any of that?”

Whiskey grits his teeth and shakes his head. 

“Okay, lemme see the shoulder.”

The trainer prods at him a little bit, Whiskey keeps a straight face even though every touch feels like it’s sending flames through his arm. The shot pinches a little bit and it hurts like a bitch when it goes in because they inject it directly into the muscle but there’s relief eventually. It’s like cool water rushes through his body and over up the aching. 

The nausea doesn’t go away as he takes the ice for warmup. He takes a tums and drinks some water in an attempt to settle his stomach, takes a deep breath before the first. He’s been playing hockey long enough that he’s got enough muscle memory stored up not to fall on his ass when the rink starts spinning around him. He comes off the ice from his shift and passes one of the trainers and heads back to the dressing room. He only misses two shifts while he throws up. He waves the trainer off and the trainer doesn’t ask any questions, he’s back just in time to jump over the boards and join the rush. Every goal he scores is validation that he’s doing exactly what he needs to be doing. The few cheers of the Red Wings fans in Columbus wash over him, the excited whoops of his teammates even as the ice seems to fall around him. He stumbles when he gets back to the bench, plays it off as excitement. 

He plays the rest of the game like that, never quite sure if he’s going to fall over and not get back up this time. They win and the cheering would hurt Whiskey’s head if he could feel a single part of his body, he’s numb. He feels a little bit drunk, a little bit high and a little bit like he wants to slam his head against the door. 

The painkiller wears off in bed, he grits his teeth makes it through the night by listening to a shitty podcast and squeezing his eyes shut. He puts himself on autopilot to make it through the morning. He closes his eyes through the flight until he’s in his car and driving home and he pulls into the parking garage and he screams. He just lets it all out, writhing around in his seat like that’s going to make him feel better. It doesn’t, he just ends up screaming until his throat is raw, until he can’t see straight anymore. There are tears on his face that he didn’t realize were falling. He just wants it to stop. And then he realizes he just wants to go to bed. He pulls his backpack off the seat. He feels empty, stupid, but most of all tired. 

He walks past the security guard in the lobby, takes the elevator up to his floor, eyes half closed, he’s ready to just fall into bed. The pain is still there but he’s so tired he just doesn’t process it. 

“Hey,” he jumps when he hears her voice, he looks to his left, she’s sitting on the bench beside the elevator. 

“Rachel,” he says. She looks tired but she’s sitting up straight, “What the fuck are you-” she cuts him off by standing up and hugging him. He winces, she’s squeezing too hard on his shoulder. Whiskey steps away. 

“God you look fucking terrible, I knew it,” Rachel says. 

Whiskey just wants to fall over, he takes a shaky breath. 

He falls towards the bench, just sits down. 

“I’m really fucking tired,” Whiskey says. 

“Me too,” Rachel says simply. 

She extends her hand to him and he leans on her as he walks down the hallway. He drops his bag on the floor and shuffles into his bedroom. 

“I have like, so many fucking questions,” Whiskey mumbles. 

“I can answer them after you sleep,” Rachel says. 

Whiskey nods. He falls into bed still in his clothes and he finally passes out. He sleeps until. Then he finds Rachel sitting on his couch in the living room wrapped up under one of his blankets. He finds his prescription bottle on the coffee table and takes one of his pills. Rachel watches him but she doesn’t say anything. He sits down next to her, she opens up the blanket and he scoots closer and rests his head on his shoulder. 

“Why are you here?” He says, bluntly. 

“Fair question,” She answers, “I was supposed to fly to Arizona last night, just changed my flight last minute, doorman let me in, told him I was your girlfriend, just hung out until you got home.”

“Okay that was how you got here, why?”

“I’m worried,” Rach says, “About you. You called me the other night, you could have just googled it, there was a reason for that. Are you okay, like actually okay?”

“I’m fine,” Whiskey says out of habit. 

“Con,” Rachel says. 

Whiskey feels like a chump, that that’s all it takes, there’s a lump in his throat as he says, “No, not really.” And he buries his head deeper into her shoulder because he doesn’t want to look at her and feel like he’s anything less than strong, he’s always been the strong one. 

“It hurts,” Whiskey says, “At first it was just my shoulder, I hurt it in September,” his voice trembles as he remembers the fear he’d felt when he’d first felt something in his shoulder tear all those months ago, “And it’s… I don’t know,” Whiskey says, “I’m supposed to be able to handle this.”

Rachel’s hand rests on top of his head, it’s soft and comforting. 

“I don’t want to do this to you, I’m handling it,” Whiskey says, and he pulls away, “You’re… we’re… you don’t have to, take care of yourself, not me.”

“Con,” Rachel sighs again, “I’m doing really good actually, okay? You’re still one of my best friends, I’m not judging you.”

“I’m,” Whiskey chokes on his own words, he stands up, turns away from her, there’s anger but he doesn’t have the energy to lean into it so what’s meant to be an ultimatum comes out weak, “I’m supposed to be strong,” Whiskey says. 

Rachel stands up, puts her hand on his wrist. 

“You don’t have to be here, I’m fine,” Whiskey says, “You have your own life.”

“You’re a part of my life, you idiot,” Rachel says, “I’m done my semester, I don’t really want to spend all of December with my parents, so I’m here and it’s not a big deal.”

Whiskey grits his teeth. 

And then he sits down. 

“It’s a problem,” he admits, “Yesterday, I was just… I was fucking dizzy and I kept throwing up and it… usually the meds they give me keep me in the game but last night it was just… everything was spinning.”

“Okay, tell me about the meds,” Rachel says. 

“Uh,” Whiskey hands her the pill bottle, “These, I take one in the morning and one before I go to bed, and then on game nights they give me injections,” he says. 

“Do they use a vein or do they inject it into your muscle?”

“Why does it matter?”

“I’m trying to figure out what they give you since you’re too dumb to ask what it is let alone what the side effects are.”

She’s right, Whiskey sighs, “They put it in my shoulder, the muscle.”

Rachel sighs, “How long?”

“Mid October,” he guesses. 

“Con, once again, no judgement, but you need to get off that shit yesterday. It’s not necessarily addictive, well, the injections aren’t,” Rachel says, she hold sup the pill bottles, “these are, but we can figure it out.”

That simple phrase,  _ but we can figure it out,  _ it’s a relief in a way he didn’t know a sentence could be. 

“With the caveat that I didn’t finish medical school,” Rachel says, “Can I get a look at your shoulder?” 

Whiskey takes his shirt off without protest. He lets Rachel prod at him. 

“I’m not gonna diagnose you or anything, but shit’s fucked,” she finally says. 

He laughs, “Yeah,” and he keeps laughing and laughing and then he’s crying and she’s wrapping her arms around him and he cries. Because it’s so fucked up, it’s all fucked up and no one’s been honest about that fact until this very second. 

“Help,” he finally manages to croak out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings  
> general discussions of nausea and vomiting caused by prescription drugs, whiskey's painkiller use is on the same level as the last few chapters  
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> it's rachel, you guys like rachel, right? I like rachel, she's cool as fuck. they're going to figure it out.


	22. Without our arms and feathers and hollow bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes you just need to talk to the homies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from when we were young by lost kings (i don't expect anybody to listen to the shitty songs i use as titles but if you're gonna listen to one of them, this is the one to do it, because it has the exact Vibe of this chapter)

When Whiskey was seven he played lacrosse on a team in Scottsdale. He was pretty good too. He loved it, kept his stick beside his bed and convinced his mom to sit in the backyard and throw balls at him so he could get better at catching. There was a tournament one weekend, he and his mom drove to Scottsdale bright and early every morning. Whiskey had bright eyes and his stick in his hand. They were the best team in the league. 

It was a turf field and he wasn’t used to that. He remembers hearing a couple of the parents complaining about it,  _ it gets so hot, ugh my daughter twisted her ankle on a turf field last weekend, it’s not safe.  _ But Whiskey didn’t care about any of that, he was just thrilled to play. Thrilled to eat his orange slices and drink gatorade and listen to his coach tell him what a good job he was doing. 

The kids played four games a day and Whiskey’s team won all four on Friday. He was giddy on Saturday morning while his mom sipped her coffee and sat in the shade of the bleachers. 

It was halfway through the third quarter and his team was up 11-7, a solid lead but Whiskey knew that it wasn’t so solid that the other team couldn’t catch up. He remembers looking up and seeing his dad, still wearing the clothes he wore to the office but with his sleeves rolled up and talking to his mom. He saw one of the kids on the other team drop the ball and Whiskey sprinted to get it. He’d never scored a goal in front of his dad. And he was running, faster than the other teams midfielders and scooping the ball with his stick. He turned to run towards the other teams goal. He was smiling, it was windy but in a cool pleasant kind of way. And that’s when he fell. It was just a little trip but he was going fast enough that he twisted his ankle and got turf burn on his thigh. And he cried. Because he was 7 and it hurt and he really wanted to score that goal and now they were stopping the game and his coach was walking over to him. 

“You don’t need to cry, son, all these people don’t need to see you cry.”

Whiskey sniffled and stopped crying. 

“I want you to stand up, Connor. I want you to walk with me over to the bench and put some ice on that ankle, but I want you to walk off the field and be strong, no tears, okay?”

Whiskey nodded and wiped away his tears. He remembers everybody clapping as he limped to the sideline stoicly. And he remembers the congratulatory cheer his dad let out when he played the next game and he remembers the, “Way to push through, kid,” that someone had said to him while his team collected their tournament medals. 

The point is, Connor Whisk doesn’t feel strong when he cries. He hasn’t since that day playing field lacrosse. There have been moments in his life where he’s cried, he’s not that good at suppressing things, but it’s only been when he doesn’t feel like he has to be strong, when he’s been looking at Kent or when he’s been alone. For a long time, he had to be strong for Rachel. When her uncle died, he didn’t cry, never in front of her. When they kept breaking up in high school or when he told her he liked guys, as emotional as it got, he never cried.

And now he’s sitting on his couch and she’s bringing him a bottle of water and putting her chin on his shoulder and saying, 

“I think you cried out every ounce of water in your body,” she jokes. 

He sniffles and drinks half the bottle and sets it down on the coffee table. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Whiskey says. 

“I didn’t change my flight to  _ not  _ talk about what’s wrong with you. Don’t waste my time, Whisk,” she gets stern in a way that Whiskey knows comes entirely from the heart. 

Whiskey sighs. And it occurs to him that Kent had done the same thing, noticed something was wrong and then shown up to check in on him. And he feels guilty, because he was supposed to love Kent. This is different though. For one thing, he’s exhausted, he doesn’t want to fight anymore. For another, Rachel’s not letting him pretend, because Kent had shown up and said, “I just missed you,” and smiled and tried to make it okay before he’d snapped. There’s no snap with Rachel, and maybe it’s because she loves him in a different way and definitely it’s because the sound of pills rattling around in a bottle doesn’t make her remember the worst nights of her life. 

“There are so many things,” Whiskey says and lets out a shaky laugh, “I have to play tomorrow,” he says. 

“You don’t,” Rachel says and she takes his hand and squeezes it. 

“I signed a contract, Rach,” Whiskey says. 

“You’re shoulders fucked up and, you’re on more pain killers than anyone should ever be at one time.”

“They said my shoulder probably needs surgery, but it can wait until the offseason.”

“Con, that’s months away.”

“It’s been fine.”

“Okay but what if it could be better than fine.”

And Whiskey buries his head in his hands because he hasn’t felt much better than fine in ages. 

“You could get it now and be back on the ice sooner than you think. You deserve to at least consider it.”

“But the team-”

“Can find another guy to play centre.”

“That’s what I’m fucking afraid of,” Whiskey groans. 

“Explain,” she says. 

“I’m replaceable. There are 100 different players just like me who can take my spot.”

“So they take your spot, then you find a new spot.”

She makes so much sense that it’s painful. 

“My head hurts,” Whiskey says. 

“It’s a side effect of most intramuscular pain relievers. They don’t actually stop the pain, they just postpone it, and then it hits you once it wears off, worse than it would have been if you’d never used it.”

“I didn’t actually know that,” Whiskey says. 

“They didn’t tell you?” She asks. 

“I never asked.”

She sighs, “Con, I think maybe they don’t necessarily have your best interests at heart.”

“Kent said that before we… before I…” Whiskey starts crying again. 

“Oh honey,” Rachel says and she wraps his arms around his neck and lets him press his head against her chest. 

“I didn’t wanna ask, but I thought maybe…”

Whiskey nods. 

“I’m so sorry.”

“It was my fault,” Whiskey says, he’s had plenty of time to wallow about that. 

“Do you want to talk about that?”

“I don’t think so,” Whiskey says. 

“Okay,” Rachel says. 

He moves out of her arms and sighs. 

“What do I do?”

“We can come up with a plan,” Rachel says. 

And she knows him so well, because he operates entirely based off of plans. 

“I don’t know what I want.”

“Well start small,” Rachel says. 

And so they come up with a plan, to call the team doctor, to tell them about his shoulder, to insist on surgery and to decide what to do from there. It’s the “what to do from there,” part that terrifies Whiskey, because he wants to plan everything, to know exactly what’ going to happen next. But he can’t.

Rachel holds his hand while he calls the doctor and says in no uncertain terms that he can’t play until he fixes his shoulder. There’s a deep sigh on the other end of the phone before the doctor says. 

“Don’t let them talk you out of it. Come in tomorrow before morning skate and I’ll make sure you get a referral.”

And then Whiskey falls back against the couch and the two friends watch movies and order shitty, greasy chinese food and curl up under the blanket. Whiskey can’t remember the last time he’s spent a night not thinking about hockey. He eats dinner and has seconds not because he’s thinking about his run in the morning but because Rachel always orders extra fried rice and never finishes it. And it’s a relief. It’s insane how much of a relief it is. 

He drives himself to the rink, spends hours there before the rest of the team shows up sitting with the team doctor and the trainers. The coach walks in, the doctor tells him what’s going on, that Whiskey won’t play, that he can’t. And Whiskey doesn’t let himself get talked out of it. It’s hard, when the doctor keeps giving him alternative plans and the coach tells him that he’s a “useful part of the team,” and the subtext of the conversation is that he’s replaceable. But he holds to it and he walks out of the rink with a referral and an appointment. 

The next day is hard, he can’t stop thinking about how he’s supposed to be playing tonight, thinking about what he’d be doing if he was going to play. 

Having Rachel there helps, even if all she’s doing is sitting on the couch working on her paper. And then the game starts and he turns off the TV and ignores it all. Rachel gives him a little look that says, “hey I’m proud of you for that,” but doesn’t actually say it. 

He’s been so good at pretending to be okay that when he gets a text from Tango asking him why he’s not playing and why they’re saying he’s out with injury, he doesn’t know how to answer. Because he’s been lying to his friends about how he’s actually doing. His self-imposed isolation became justified by business. He looks down at the message. 

**Tango:** **u good? What’s up with the injury report?**

He takes a deep breath, looks over at Rachel who’s furrowing her brow at her laptop. 

**Whiskey:** **I’m not great tbh, i decided my shoulder needs surgery so i’m out for the rest of the month and December at the least**

 **Tango:** **oh shit**

 **Tango:** **do you need anything?**

 **Whiskey:** **I’m really not sure, but thank you for offering.**

He lets out the deep breath. 

**Tango:** **When are you going for surgery**

 **Whiskey:** **in two days**

 **Tango:** **shiiiiiit. Are you alone? I can fly out if you need help after**

 **Whiskey:** **Rachel’s here. I’ll get through it.**

 **Tango:** **okay. Just let me know if you need anything. All u gotta do is ask.**

It makes Whiskey feel a little better and a little terrified at the same time because he really doesn’t know how to ask. 

The doctor at his initial consultation agrees that he needs surgery immediately and he’s scheduled for the next day. It’s fast, everything about it is fast because everyone wants to get him back on the ice as soon as possible. 

And then he tells the doctor about the pills. 

“I’ve been taking them for pain,” he explains. 

The doctor nods, understandingly.

“And I’d like to get to a place where I don’t need them.”

And it’s hard to say it but he does it anyway. And Rachel tells him she’s proud of him. 

The concept of surgery is terrifying. He knows the likelihood of it going wrong is slim, that they do this kind of thing all the time. But the idea of being out of control for that long makes him want to scream. But he just keeps going. He shuts off his brain the same way he did when he was training and ignoring the pain, he can’t talk himself out of it if he’s not thinking about it. He does everything he’s supposed to, doesn’t eat any solid food for 24 hours, checks into the hospital, gets his vitals checked and sits patiently in the hospital room.

Rachel’s allowed to stay with him because they lie and say she’s his girlfriend. She looks up from the book she’s reading and gives him a slight smile. 

“Scared?” She asks. 

“I don’t really think about it,” Whiskey says. 

“You’re so dumb,” she rolls her eyes fondly. 

There’s a moment of quiet before she says, “I hate hospitals, can’t wait to get you out of here.”

“You don’t have to-” Whiskey starts but cuts himself off, “Thank you for being here,” he says. 

He starts to think about some of it on the way to surgery, but he’s knocked out before he can really consider backing out. 

It’s dark outside when he wakes up, he can see the street lights out his window. He opens his eyes and finds that he really just wants to go back to sleep. He looks around the room and sees Rachel sleeping in the chair in the corner. So he closes his eyes again and sleeps. The next time he opens them there’s a blue tinge to the room and it’s a little bit colder and Rachel is gone. He looks around and sees her sitting on the floor with her laptop in front of her. 

“Rach?” he grumbles. 

“Oh you’re finally awake,” she says softly. 

The door to his room creaks open and he’s expecting to see a nurse, but instead he sees a pair of cat eye glasses looking right at him. 

“Ford?” he croaks out, his throat is dry. 

“Oh my gosh,” she says, “You’re awake.”

Tango walks in behind her holding a starbucks tray. He hands a drink to Rachel and another to Ford. 

“What are you guys doing here?” he rasps. 

“Visiting,” Tango says, “Wasn’t gonna miss seeing my best bro after shoulder surgery.”

“But,” Whiskey says, “But school and-” Whiskey starts. 

“Relax,” Ford says, “It’s all sorted out.” she sits on the edge of his bed. 

“When’s the last time we even hung out?” Tango asks, “This is the perfect excuse to chill together.”

Whiskey laughs. 

“So how do you feel? Are you tired? Can I eat your jello?” Tango asks. 

“Uh,” Whiskey says and then he answers Tango’s questions in teh order he was asked them like he always has, “Can’t feel much of anything, no not really, and yeah go for it.”

“Sweet,” Tango scoop up the jello from Whiskey’s food tray, Whiskey picks up the cup of orange juice and takes a sip. 

“I’ve gotta go to the starbucks to send this draft to my TA,” Rachel says, “you guys talk though,” she kisses the top of Whiskey’s head. 

Ford sits with her legs crossed on the end of Whiskey’s bed while Tango relaxes in the chair. 

“So what happened?” Ford asks. 

Whiskey sighs, “I got hurt in September, tried to play through it, made it worse. And I guess, with everything, I realized that I was kind of just… pretending to be okay.”

“Oh Whiskey,” Ford says and she launches forward to hug him. Whiskey looks down at the sling over his arm that she carefully avoids. 

“I knew you weren’t telling us something.” 

Whiskey takes a shaky breath, “I’m sorry guys,” he says, “I just. I didn’t want to bother anyone so I kind of just sat on my own, especially when i had the concussion.”

“Bro,” Tango says, “Don’t apologize. Just know you can tell us anything.”

Whiskey nods, “S’hard,” he says. 

Ford hugs his side, Tango reaches forward and puts his hand on Whiskey’s knee. 

“I’m not letting you be alone while you recover,” she says. 

And Whiskey knows that when she says something like that she means it. 

There’s a spreadsheet involved and Whiskey’s pretty sure he caught a glimpse of a groupchat called the “Connor Whisk Support Squad.”

Rachel flies to Arizona a few days later but Tango and Ford stay in Detroit. They make a good team, Ford keeps him busy by making him watch all the musicals that she’s been trying to get him to watch since first year. And Tango does most of the cooking but Ford bakes bread in the oven that he hasn’t used since moving in and he helps Whiskey do the exercises his physical therapist is giving him. 

And he tells them about the pills one night while they’re eating Nonna Tangredi’s gnocchi on the floor in the living room. 

“I guess it’s a problem,” he says and then he sighs, “That’s why I’m talking to the doctor about getting off them once my shoulder’s healed.”

“All the pain you were trying to play through, it was understandable,” Ford says. 

Tango nods with a mouth full of pasta. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “It just… I don’t know if this is the right place for me anymore.”

“Like Detroit or?” Tango asks. 

“I dunno, hockey maybe,” Whiskey says and then he starts to get choked up as he says, “I don’t know what else I can do.”

“Well,” Ford says, “You don’t have to worry about that now.”

“I didn’t like… the people. It’s just… y’know the pills were just one part of it. When we’d go out I’d get blasted and act like someone I don’t want to be and after Kent and I… after we… yeah, there were just a lot of girls who I hooked up with and didn’t text again and I’m just not built for that but I felt like I had to be and… I’m just repeating what the therapist and I talked about the other day.”

“No it’s good,” Tango says. 

“I want to get better, I really really do,” Whiskey says. “And I also want to play, all I’ve ever wanted to do is play. And you guys are here and it’s great but I’m afraid once you leave I’m going to become someone I don’t like again.”

“So talk to us even when we’re gone. Promise you’ll do a better job of reaching out and I promise I’ll do a better job of checking in,” Ford says. 

“Same here,” Tango adds. 

“What if this was a mistake?” Whiskey asks, “They looked at me like I was a dumbass when I said I wanted surgery. And I get why, I was playing so well and working so hard and I don’t know how to play that well if I’m not working myself into the ground because I’m anxious.”

Whiskey just keeps talking, then shoves a bite of food in his mouth to keep himself from saying anything more. 

“I cleaned up the dressing rooms before practice,” Ford says, “And I always knew when you were there because I found bloody socks or I could see the bandaids that you had on your feet in the garbage… And you played better when you weren’t turning yourself into a zombie for it.”

“We all played better when we had fun.”

“That worked in college,” Whiskey says, “but this is work, it’s supposed to be, it’s my job now. I don’t know how far fun can take me.”

“Worth a shot, right?”

“Hmm,” Whiskey says, “Maybe.”

“Can we watch Star Wars tonight?” Tango changes the subject. 

They agree. 

He sees his doctors less and less over the next couple days, his instruction become, “rest and call us if anything goes wrong,” once it becomes clear that surgery went fine and then he’s on his own.

The Connor Whisk support squad converges when Ford and Tango have to back to Massachusetts to write their exams. 

“You’re staying with Dex, he already volunteered,” Ford says on the plane ride in. 

“I haven’t talked to Dex in a year,” Whiskey says. 

“Well you’ll have time to catch up, won’t you then,” Tango says and if it was coming out of Ford’s mouth it would be sarcastic but it’s Tango so he actually means it. 

Dex’s apartment is in Boston, it’s small and crowded but he doesn’t have any roommates and his couch is comfortable. Whiskey watches shitty TV while Dex types out some code on his computer in the living room. It’s quiet, Dex and Whiskey never talked much about anything too serious. Hockey and school, occasionally, when pressed they’d talk about their plans for the future. 

Dex leans back in his chair, cracks his knuckles and turns to Whiskey. 

“You up for a drive?” he asks. 

“Uh,” Whiskey answers, “yeah sure.”

So he gets into the front seat of Dex’s truck, fiddles with the seatbelt so his sling fits over top of it. 

“Where we going?” Whiskey asks. 

“Surprise,” Dex says. 

“I hate surprises,” Whiskey says. 

“Me too, Nursey’s idea.”

Dex pulls into the visitor’s parking lot at Faber. 

“What’s going on,” Whiskey asks. 

Dex doesn’t say anything, just gets out of the truck. He pulls an equipment bag out of the bed and starts walking. Whiskey trails behind as Dex sneaks around the side of the building and unlocks a side door with a key he must still have from senior year. The door leads into the old men’s hockey dressing room. 

“I’ve got your skates,” Dex says. 

“Oh,” Whiskey says, “For what?”

“Skating, we’re at Faber, what did you think we were doing?”

Whiskey manages to get his skates on and then looks down at the untied laces and down at the sling on his arm. 

“I’ll get that for you,” 

“You don’t-” Whiskey starts. 

“You can’t do it yourself, let me help you.”

Whiskey gives in and lets Dex tie his skates like he’s in peewee again. 

And when they walk out onto the bench, Whiskey quickly finds that they’re not alone. The lights at Faber are off, probably because no one knows they’re there, but there’s light coming in through the window. 

“Welcome to the annual SMH alumni reunion,” someone shouts, Whiskey looks around a realizes it’s Shitty. 

“What the hell?” Whiskey says. 

Ransom and Holster are on the ice, Shitty’s leaning on the boards while Lardo sits on the edge, legs dangling over the ice. He sees Jack and Bitty and Nursey and Chowder, Dex was standing next to him but he skates out onto the ice. Tango’s making his way over to where Whiskey’s standing, Ford is clutching his arm, wobbly in her own skates. 

“It’s a tradition,” Ransom says, “It was Jack’s idea after we graduated,” Holster adds. 

Jack shrugs quietly. 

“I miss Faber sometimes, and Annie’s, we always get Annie’s after.”

“Well uh,” Whiskey says, “I can’t really play if that’s what you want to do,” He gestures to his shoulder. 

“That’s chill, we can always use a ref, and Lards doesn’t really skate but she keeps score and womans the penalty box,” Shitty says. 

Lardo grins and waves Whiskey over, “Look, I even stole a whistle for you.” She tosses it across the ice and Whiskey catches it with his good arm. 

He feels stupid and a little bit like he shouldn’t even really be there, but everyone’s looking at him expectantly and so he slides the ring of the whistle onto his finger and makes himself smile. There’s a tension as he takes his first strides, everybody looking at him like they expect he might bolt or say that this was a bad idea.

“Alright, sticks in the middle, I guess,” Whiskey says. 

And the tension fizzles out as everyone skates to centre ice and drops their sticks in over the faceoff dot and then Whiskey divides them up. The teams end up pretty even, Shitty, Jack, Ransom, Holster and Chowder against Bitty, Tango, Nursey, Dex and Ford. 

“Sorry if I spend more time on my ass than on my feet,” Ford says. 

“Nah Foxy, we got you,” Tango says. 

“Alright, so no goalies, just defence?” Whiskey asks, Chowder’s not wearing his goalie equipment, everyone agrees. 

Lardo pushes a button in the penalty box and a buzzer goes off, the one that usually went off to signal the start of warmup but this time it just makes everybody jump. 

“Hurry up, I want to get to Annie’s before they run out of chocolate croissants.”

Everyone laughs, she tosses Whiskey a puck. 

“Can we make the soon to be newlyweds take the faceoff!” Shitty teases, elbowing Jack. 

“We don’t even have a wedding date yet, Shits,”Jack says. 

“And I’m not a centre.”

“Don’t care, do it,” Whiskey says and Shitty fistbumps him as he skates past. 

Whiskey drops the puck. Jack wins, no amount of love for his fiance can beat the competitive streak out of him. 

There’s laughter as Jack passes to Shitty and Shitty decides to immediately take a shot from the blueline that goes so wide of the net Whiskey would have thought he was trying to miss. 

Tango collects the puck from behind the net and Whiskey follows the play, Ransom and Holster are standing guard in front of the net, Ransom slightly in front of him and Holster standing right in front of the net. He flips the puck to Bitty on his backhand and gets around Ransom, Bitty passes it back to Tango and Tango wraps the puck around the goalpost from behind. Lardo lays on the goal horn and puts 1-0 up on the scoreboard. 

“I knew I still had it,” Tango pumps his fist and cellies. Whiskey looks up and sees Ford sitting on her ass just below the red line, laughing, she must have fallen in the rush. 

Whiskey skates over and helps her up with his good arm, Ford keeps laughing. 

“I pity your future gym class, Mr. Tangredi,” Nursey says. 

“Hey! I’m gonna be a math teacher,” Tango protests. 

“Those who can’t do teach,” Dex chirps. 

“And those who can’t teach, teach gym,” Nursey joins in. 

“Hey stripes, is there a penalty for excessive chirping?” Tango asks Whiskey. 

“Not if it’s accurate,” Whiskey deadpans and everyone laughs. 

He drops the puck again. He hangs out lazily behind the play, watches Jack and Shitty get into a playful shoving match with Bitty and Tango while Ford sits underneath of them because she fell again. 

He skates over to Lardo and hops up onto the boards next to her, “So should I be calling actual penalties?”

“Actual penalties, fake penalties, live your best life,” Lardo says. 

So next time Tango scores a goal and drops down to one knee and pumps his fist Whiskey blows the whistle. 

“Excessive celebration!” he shouts. 

“That’s not even our sport!” Tango protests. 

“He makes the rules,” Lardo chuckles, “69 seconds for excessive celebration.”

It goes on like that, Whiskey calling dumb penalties and Lardo calling out equally dumb punishments. 

Nursey has to do 10 push ups at centre ice for checking Holster too hard. Jack has to sit in the penalty box for six seconds for “giving Bittle heart eyes and tripping Tango as a result.” Chowder gets called out for “goaltending excessively as a forward.”

It’s fun, Whiskey has fun and that fact kind of sneaks up on him. But he realizes near the end of the scrimmage when he watches Tango pass the puck to Ford. He watches Ford’s eyes blow wide as she looks down with at the puck. 

“Go!” Whiskey shouts at her. 

“Hey, you’re supposed to be neutral!” Shitty shouts. 

It distracts Ransom and Holster enough that Ford trips and falls but manages to guide the puck into the net and everyone cheers even the guys on the other team. 

“That’s worth at least two points!” Lardo shouts and adjusts the scoreboard accordingly. 

There are laughs and Holster and Jack protest the extra point but Ford maintains that a falling goal is doubly impressive. Whiskey hasn’t thought about his shoulder in the hour since he’s been at Faber. The ice under his feet feels sturdy and good. He skates backwards and smiles at himself. 

“I can’t believe you have an actual NHL player on your team and you  _ still  _ lost!” Bitty chirps Shitty. 

“It’s because the refs were biased!” Shitty shouts back. 

Jack skates over to Bitty and kisses the top of his head, Shitty collects Lardo from the penalty box and skates her out into the middle of the ice on her back. 

“Annies?” she says. 

“God, I’m starving,” Ford says, “I think I finally understand why you boys were always eating.”

“Finally,” Tango says. Ford rests her head on Tango’s shoulder, Whiskey notices the way Tango’s hand rests gently on Ford’s waist. The three of them have always been tactile but that’s new. 

They all sit in the locker room after Lardo and Ford lock up, taking off their skates, no one really wore any other equipment. Whiskey takes longer than everybody else, struggling to get them off with one hand. But no one’s in a hurry. Bitty leans back in his old stall. 

“Gosh I miss the locker room.”

“Still smells like socks,” Tango says. 

And they laugh and Whiskey laughs with them and there’s something about laughing at a joke that wasn’t really that funny with a bunch of other people who only really keep laughing because everyone else is laughing. 

They make the walk to Annie’s and they fall back into their old habits. They’re loud. Whiskey never hung out with Jack, Shitty or Lardo while they played but they rope him into the old inside jokes. 

Tango sits in between Whiskey and Ford in the booth that they all slide into. After the waitress takes their orders everyone starts talking and catching up. Whiskey quickly realizes that he’s done a far worse job of keeping up with his teammates than everyone else. 

“How’s the cookbook, Bits?” Shitty asks. 

Bitty answers and Whiskey tries really hard to keep up but he ends up sinking back into the booth the more his teammates talk. Nursey’s working for a publishing company now, he knows that Dex is working cybersecurity for a bank in Boston but that’s only because he hung out with him this morning. Even Tango and Ford’s lives are a mystery to him. Ford talks about an internship she has next semester and Whiskey didn’t know that Tango wanted to be a math teacher. And the way Tango’s hand rests on Ford’s knee is new and he doesn’t know how to ask about it without seeming like a shitty friend. 

He gets through it though, because he’s gotten good at faking it. They all get their food and the laughter continues and Jack, Bitty and Dex all shush the group at different times, (Tango was never the kind of captain that told them to shut up). 

“Let me pay,” Jack says when the bill gets dropped off at the table. 

“I can take it,” Whiskey says. 

“Oh boys, no,” Bitty says, “I just got the advance on my cookbook, I’ll take it.”

“No, no, let me,” Jack says.

Whiskey picks up the bill before Jack can snatch it. 

“Least I can do” Whiskey says, doesn’t add that he feels like he needs to pay them all back for making him genuinely actually laugh for the first time in months. 

He slides his credit card to the waitress. 

“Well I’m not going to complain no matter who pays,” Lardo says. 

They laugh about it. 

“So what’s the plan?” Bitty asks. 

“I’ve gotta go into the office,” Nursey says. 

Dex groans, “Me too, stupid fucking grown up jobs.”

“I’m taking Cait out to dinner while we’re in town,” Chowder says. 

“Well anyone’s welcome to come over for drinks at ours, it’s a bit of a drive but we’ll order dinner,” Bitty says with his voice full of southern charm. 

“Wish we could, Bitty,” Ransom says. 

“Rans and I have work early tomorrow.”

“Well I have no plans Shitty declares,” he points at Whiskey, Tango and Foxtrot, “And neither do you three, so we’re going to drink wine and be fancy in the millionaire’s house.”

“We have two millionaire’s in our midst, don’t we?” Lardo asks and looks to Whiskey. 

Whiskey snorts, “I am a 700 thousand-aire before taxes and escrow.”

“What the hell is escrow?” Lardo asks. 

“Bullshit,” Jack and Whiskey mutter at the same time. 

Lardo and Shitty ride with Jack to Providence while Whiskey slides into the backseat of Tango’s car. The first thing he notices is Ford’s scarf sitting on top of the centre console, which makes sense, objectively, they’re friends, Tango probably gives her rides everywhere. But one of her sweaters is also on the floor at his feet and he has to move some of her textbooks to slide into the middle seat. 

He waits until they’re on the highway and there’s a lull in the music queue. 

“So can now be the time where I ask how long you two have been a thing?” he raises an eyebrow. He sees Tango’s face go pink immediately, Ford whips around in her seat to look at him with wide eyes. 

“Whiskey,” she says warningly. 

“What?” he says, “It’s fine.”

“It’s… we’re-” Tango stammers. 

“It’s nothing serious,” she says, “We’re still figuring it out but right now it’s nothing official.”

“Yeah,” Tango says, “Casual.”

“Woah,” Whiskey says, “Life story, much. Cool though, good for you.”

“We’re  _ not  _ dating,” Ford asserts and Tango nods. 

“That doesn’t mean I can’t make fun of you for it.”

“Okay, just don’t tell the rest of the team yet, it’s not a  _ thing.” _

Whiskey’s never been inside Jack and Bitty’s condo before so they follow Jack, Shitty, Lardo and Bitty up to their floor and in.There are massive windows looking out over providence and a couch in the living room sectioning it off into a living room and a dining room. 

“Nice place,” Whiskey says. 

“Thanks,” Jack says, “Bitty decorated.”

Bitty shrugs. Whiskey notices how Bitty hasn’t really been making eye contact with him all day. 

Bitty pulls out a party game to fill the lull in the silence, they play a round of it before they get bored of the rules and devolve into a round of “never have i ever.” deciding it’s too early to start drinks, they agree that they’ll play the fingers version of the game and whoever puts down five fingers first has to order the pizza.

Shitty opens proudly with his go-to never have i ever, saying, “Never have I ever sucked a dick.”

“You sound slightly too proud of that,” Lardo says and puts a finger down. 

Tango puts down a finger and Whiskey turns to look at him, Tango shrugs, “I want to see if I liked dudes.”

“And?” Whiskey asks. 

“Nah, not really.”

They all laugh and then it’s Lardo’s turn. 

“Never have I ever graduated from school and thought to mysself, ‘hmm, you know what sounds good? More school.”

Whiskey laughs at Ford’s furrowed eyebrows. Shitty kisses her on the cheek and puts down a finger. 

“Whiskey, go for it,” Lardo says. 

“Uh,” he tries to think, “Oh uh, never have I ever captained the Samwell Men’s Hockey team.”

“Lame,” Tango says and puts his finger down. 

“Never have I ever bought a moustache comb.”

Shitty puts his finger down for obvious reasons, but so does Ford, “It was a prop,” and Bitty, “I was running errands for my father.”

“Never have I ever dated an NHL player,” Lardo says and sticks her tongue out at Bitty, it’s the last finger he puts down and he sighs. 

“I feel targeted.”

Whiskey tries to go unnoticed as he puts his finger down. 

Shitty raises an eyebrow at him, “Dude, what?”

“We’re not dating anymore,” he mumbles. 

“Oh, sorry bro, didn’t know,” Lardo says. 

Whiskey waves her off with his good arm and leans back against the sofa, “So when’s Bittle ordering pizza,” he jokes. 

Bitty laughs awkwardly, “I am on it!” he jumps up, still doesn’t look at Whiskey. 

He calls and orders quickly and then returns to the living room holding plates and a maple apple sugar crusted pie. 

“Who wants dessert first,” Bitty says. 

“Oh fuck yeah,” Tango says. 

Bitty hands out slices and forks. Whiskey sets his plate on his lap and pokes at it. 

“Oooh I have a couple bottles of wine, who wants a glass,” Bitty gets up almost as soon as he sits down. 

“You always have fancy wine,” count me in, Lardo says. 

Everyone agrees, Whiskey lowers his voice.

“I’ll pass, thanks,” he says. Bitty just nods. Jack looks across the room at him. 

“I’m good too, Bits,” he takes Bitty’s hand and presses it to his lips, “But thank you.”

They drink their wine and Bitty brings Jack and Whiskey a glass of soda. 

“Thanks,” Whiskey mumbles. 

“Uh-huh,” Bitty says and then returns to sitting on the arm of Jack’s chair. 

They watch a basketball game and talk about nonsense and laugh and Whiskey can see his friends getting buzzed and the pizza shows up and they gorge themselves on it and Shitty suggests a movie and they settle in for the night as Bitty tells them that they’re all welcome to spend the night. 

So they open another bottle of wine and Jack and Whiskey turn Bitty down when he offers. Lardo sits in the corner of the couch with Shitty curled up under her arm. Whiskey’s at the other end of the couch. Jack and Bitty are sitting in the arm chair, Bitty still perched on the edge. Ford has her feet stretched across Tango’s lap on the other couch. Everyone’s quiet and Whiskey wishes he could feel as relaxed as they look. 

The movie’s over, Bitty offers Lardo and Shitty the first spare room and offers Tango and Ford the pullout couch in his office. They all sleepily shuffle down the hallway. Jack is snoring in the armchair. 

“You’re more than welcome to the couch, Whiskey,” Bitty says with his back turned to Whiskey. 

“Thanks,” Whiskey says. 

“I’m just gonna tidy up before I head to bed,” Bitty says. 

“Let me help,” Whiskey says, voice low so Jack doesn’t wake up. 

He starts gathering up plates before Bitty can brush off his help. 

“Oh, uh, thank you,” Bitty says. 

Whiskey stacks all of the dishes next to the sink while Bitty puts the leftovers in the fridge and re-corks a bottle of wine. 

Whiskey starts filling the sink and then realizes that he won’t be able to wash the dishes with one arm. 

Bitty frowns, “Oh, let me then, you don’t have to.”

“I can dry probably,” Whiskey says. 

He manages to dry the dishes and put them away in their kitchen. Bitty doesn’t say anything to him. 

“Is something wrong?” Whiskey asks, “Like did I do something, you’ve kinda been avoiding talking to me.”

“Oh,” Bitty says, “Um,” he sets down the washcloth, “Well.”

“I thought we were cool after everything.”

“Lord,” Bitty says, “We are,” he sighs, “Jack’s been talking to Kent so I guess I just… it’s odd.”

“Oh,” Whiskey says, “Yeah, I mean, that makes sense.”

Bitty jumps up onto the kitchen island and sits on the edge. Whiskey sits on the counter across from him. 

“Yeah,” Bitty says, “and it’s not as if  _ I’m  _ friends with him, goodness, I don’t think I could ever manage  _ that,  _ you know that,  __ but he and Jack talk and he’s talked about you more than a couple times. And it’s not like I’m talkin’ to him, it’s just… strange ”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “Uh, sorry.”

“Good lord, don’t be sorry. I don’t know exactly what happened but you’re both adults and adults are allowed to break up. Kent knows that Jack and I wouldn’t pick sides.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to do that,” Whiskey says quickly. 

“Of course,” Bitty says. He taps his fingers on the marble countertop, “How are you? Really, I know you were together for quite a while.”

“Um,” Whiskey says. 

“You don’t have to talk with me, I know we never connected like that,” Bitty says calmly. 

“No, it’s okay, thanks for asking. At Samwell I was just, you were… we were, it was whatever,” Whiskey waves his hand dismissively, “I’ve definitely been better. It’s hard.” Whiskey admits. 

“If you need anything you can just ask me and Jack.”

“Thank, you,” Whiskey says, “I might.”

“Good, I know it was hard for Jack when he went from college to the NHL, goodness and you had to move, I almost forgot about that, that can’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t.”

“I’m gonna make some hot chocolate, a late night cheat meal,” Bitty winks, “You should have a mug, you’ll want one once you smell it.”

Whiskey gives in, he lets Bitty try. 

Bitty hops down from the counter, Whiskey stays where he is. 

“Jack talks about some of the awful injuries the boys play through. Even on the Falcs where the coaches take that stuff seriously, it’s gruesome. And they play and just make it worse, I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is I was glad to hear you were dealing with your injury instead of trying to play through it.”

“I did try to play through it,” Whiskey says, “For a while.”

“Oh?” Bitty says. 

“Yeah, they announced it after a game like I’d gotten hurt that game, but I hurt myself back in September and just kept playing.”

“Well better late than never.”

Bitty pours some milk into a pot on the stove. He chops up a bar of baking chocolate while he waits for it to boil. 

“Did the team…” Bitty starts, “I don’t mean to pry,”

“No it’s okay,” Whiskey says he thinks about the handful of therapy appointments he’d been to in the days following his surgery. How his seeming need for privacy was really just another way to keep his friends from worrying about him, how his fear of worrying his friends was unfounded, how he’s trying really hard to believe that, “It’s uh, it’s nice to talk about it. They never told me outright I had to keep playing but it was clear that if I stepped away to get healthy I wouldn’t have a spot on the roster when I came back guaranteed. They didn’t really talk about surgery and rehabbing the injury like it was the right option for me.”

Bitty nods, he adds a splash of vanilla and some other spices to the milk before he stirs in the chocolate. 

Bitty sighs, “I want to think the best of everyone, really I do, but then I hear about things like that, the Falcs getting rid of Snowy because he was hurt. This sport just keeps on breakin’ hearts, huh?” Bitty says with a sad chuckle. 

Whiskey agrees, “I was thinking about Jack a lot when I was trying to decide if it was right to get surgery”

“Oh?” Bitty says. 

“Just thinking about…” Whiskey sighs, “When I first hurt my shoulder they started giving me painkillers and then it worked up to injections before games and I was… it was a problem, I’m still trying to learn how to admit that. It didn’t get bad enough that I was… in serious danger but I thought about you and Jack and maybe I should have called or asked for help but I just thought about what you’d say, that’s weird right? We’re not like great friends, but just knowing Jack went through something that wasn’t exactly the same but close and made it through it… I just knew that you’d both want me to take time to get my head back on and my shoulder… well, get my shoulder back on too, it was like, fully separated,” Whiskey laughs. 

“If you had called that’s exactly what we would have said. What he would have said. You can call anytime, Jack’s full of wise hockey advice.”

“I think it’d be a little weird because of the Kent stuff now,” Whiskey admits. 

“Hmm,” Bitty says. 

“It’s okay, I’m working on it.”

“I’m glad, Whiskey.” Bitty pours some kind of cream into the hot chocolate and keeps stirring. 

“I know you said their medical advice was… sub-par, but what about everything else.”

“Felt like I was livin’ the dream for a bit,” Whiskey admits. 

“You really were playing well.”

“I didn’t expect you to keep.”

“Oh well, Jack watches a lot of hockey and your name comes up a lot on those highlight shows.”

“Cool,” Whiskey says. 

“What about the guys? Are they… were they… supportive?”

“Well they didn’t know,” Whiskey says, “Either team. I don’t really,” he sighs, “Like I lived with this one dude in Grand Rapids and he was fine, just, I didn’t feel like I could tell him. He was a good guy, just… a hockey guy, not like a Samwell hockey guy, like a fuck bitches, make money, do coke kind of hockey guy.”

“Lord!” Bitty says, “Were they…”

“The coke thing is kind of just an assumption,” Whiskey says quickly, “But yeah, I kind of just lied and said I had a girlfriend so they’d stop trying to set me up with girls which didn’t work. And then in Detroit, I dunno, I never really settled in. Always felt like I was gonna get sent down.”

“Hm,” Bitty says, “Can’t say I know what that’s like.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “Kent didn’t either, it was something that we… we kind of fought about. The things I was doing to try to stay in the NHL, he just didn’t understand it.”

“Well I think you definitely deserve to be understood,” Bitty says and he hands Whiskey a mug of hot chocolate. He jumps back up onto the counter. 

“I’ll probably just, not date guys,” Whiskey says and then takes a sip of his hot chocolate, “This is really good,” he says, “But yeah, I’m not with Kent. I broke up with him, and I was an asshole. So, he deserves better,” he says it with acceptance, maybe a little bit of hope, that Kent will move on soon and close that door quickly. 

Bitty frowns but he doesn’t say anything. 

“You can say it, that makes me a coward, doesn’t it?” Whiskey says. 

“No,” Bitty says, “I,” he stammers, “I will admit that when we were at Samwell I thought the only way to have a happy ending was to be out and proud because that’s what worked for me, but if it doesn’t work for you, then that’s okay. I just don’t want you to be unhappy.”

Whatever Whiskey’s about to say gets cut off by Jack shuffling into the kitchen. He yawns, wipes his eyes and kisses Bitty on the cheek. 

“Did you make hot chocolate?” he asks, sleep in his voice. 

“There’s a little bit left,” Bitty says. 

Jack nods sleepily and pours himself a mug. 

“I’m not interrupting anything, right?” Jack asks. 

“Just pouring my heart out to your fiance,” Whiskey jokes. 

Jack smiles softly, eyes cast downward, hair messed up. 

“He’s a good listener.”

“Oh hush,” Bitty waves Jack away, “Jack, honey, we were just talking about Whiskey’s time in Michigan.”

“Oh?” Jack says. 

“Sucks,” Whiskey says emphatically. 

Jack nods knowingly. The Red Wings are bad, bad teams hardly ever have great atmospheres, Jack would know that. 

“Time off is good then,”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says and takes a gulp of hot chocolate. 

“I’m gonna, go brush my teeth,” Bitty says, “You boys finish your hot chocolate, Whiskey, there are blankets under the couch and I’ll bring a pillow out for you.”

“Thanks,” Whiskey says. 

Jack washes the pot that Bitty used to make the hot chocolate and Whiskey doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s not tired as much as it just took a lot out of him to say all that to Bitty. 

Then he starts to wash the wine glasses and Whiskey catches his eye. 

“Kent told me about the pills,” Jack says quietly looking down at the sink, “It’s not the same but if you ever need help-”

Whiskey nods, “I’m talking to a doctor. I’m not playing so the injections aren’t a thing anymore and we’re trying to wean off the pills so I don’t have a heart attack or something. It’s under control,” Whiskey says. 

“Okay,” Jack says, “If it’s ever not though…”

“Thank you,” Whiskey says. 

Jack washes the glasses and wipes down the chocolate stains on the stove. 

“He asks about you all the time, you know?” Jack says. 

“Who?”

“Who do you think?”

Whiskey’s quiet. 

“He just wants to know you’re okay, so I told him that Ford and Tango flew out for your surgery, I hope that’s okay. He was worried.”

“He doesn’t need to worry about me,” Whiskey mumbles. 

“You were together for nearly three years, hard habit to break,” Jack says. 

“I guess,” Whiskey says, “Sorry if I made anything weird,” he mumbles. 

“It’s fine,” Jack says, “It works out in the end.”

“Right,” Whiskey says. Then he sighs, “Thank you for setting this up, uh,” Whiskey says, “I really needed this. I didn’t realize it but seeing everyone was really good.”

“I get the feeling,” Jack says. 

Bitty, as promised, brings Whiskey a pillow and Whiskey assures him that he’s plenty comfortable before promptly passing out on the couch. He feels his phone buzz once in his pocket and he ignores it, he ignores it twice more before he finally gets fed up and throws it across the room at the other couch and passes out. It’s been a long day, it was full of skating and laughter and friends but that doesn’t change the fact that it was long. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this motherfucker was LONG, i could've broken it up but w/e it all fit as one chapter i think.  
> anyway i am like, super attached to this chapter, whiskey is doing better and his friends love him but also being loved doesn't automatically make things less shitty but they do make you feel at least a little better about the way things are going. y'know? also fuuuuck i miss screwing around at a rink more than just about anything rn and this chapter made me realize. Like this chapter is just a bunch of things that i love and i hope that it brought you some joy too (i read all your comments and i know that the last little bit has been a massive fucking bummer)


	23. I'm prone to getting blinded when its bright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from this december by ricky montgomery

Whiskey wakes up because he feels like someone’s looking at him. He’s right because when he opens his eyes, there are like, a whole bunch more eyes staring at him. He startles, first instinct to pull the blanket higher above his chest and sit up. 

“What the fuck!” he says. 

“I told you he’d wake up,” For hisses. 

“Well I said we should wake him up,” Tango says. 

Everyone is standing in front of him. Ford and Tango, Jack and Bitty, Lardo and Shitty, all of them looking at him with a vaguely concerned, vaguely sorry looking expression.

“Where’s your phone, Whiskey?” Bitty asks, voice low and concerned. 

“Did someone die?” Whiskey rubs his eyes and groans, “What time is it.”

“6:45,” Ford answers. She picks up his phone and tries to turn it on, “It’s dead.”

“It was at like 50% when I went to sleep last night. Wouldn’t stop fucking buzzing though,” if he was a little more awake he might put those two pieces of information together. 

“I’ll get you a charger,” Bitty practically jumps over the coffee table to go find one. 

“Oh my god, just tell him,” Lardo blurts out.

“Tell me what?” Whiskey says. 

Tango sighs, he sits down next to Whiskey and turns on his own phone. He shows him a headline. And it takes Whiskey a minute to realize that the name in the headline is his own. 

_ Red Wings, Whisk claimed by Nordiques on waivers.  _

Whiskey’s awake now. Entirely. Eyes wide, mouth hanging open. Bitty stands uselessly with the charger in his hand. 

Whiskey can only think of one thing to say, “Fuck,” it comes out quick and breathless. 

“Those fucking assholes in Detroit,” Ford clenches her fist, “I hate them!” She says, “you’re hurt! I hate them!”

“It’s business,” Whiskey says with a hollow voice. 

“It’s fucked up,” Shitty says. 

“It’s how it is,” Whiskey says again, “Fuck.”

Bitty hands him the charger and Whiskey plugs in his phone. 

“Bets on how many missed calls I have,” he says, an attempt at humour. 

“Eighteen,” Tango says. 

“Seven,” Lardo says. 

“I’m going to fucking kill your GM,” Ford says. 

Jack’s looking at Whiskey with some weird kind of horrified glare. Jack’s phone starts to ring, it’s the generic iphone ringtone. Jack looks down at it.

“I-” he starts, swallows, “I have to take this,” Jack says and then he disappears down the hallway. Whiskey hears french,  _ parce qu'il est ici _ and the office door closing. 

Whiskey leans back against the couch while his phone restarts. 

“You good?” Shitty asks, sitting down across from Whiskey in the living room. 

“I’ll make breakfast,” Bitty says. 

“I am going to shove my little size 5 vegan Doc Martens so far up his ass that he tastes the fake leather and has to beg for forgiveness.”

“I’m fine,” Whiskey says, “Uh.” he swallows hard. Kent. 

“Fuck,” he says again, groans and runs his hands through his hair. 

Whiskey has a call from his GM, one from his mother, one from Jari, a voicemail from his coach, a call from four separate unknown numbers and voicemails. 

He drags his hands down his face and groans. 

“I don’t know where to start,” he finally sighs. 

“Start by getting me the address of your general manager and some steel toed boots,” Ford say. 

“Voicemails?” Tango suggests. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “Good idea.”

So he clicks on the notification and listens to a robot lady say, “You have five new, voice messages. First new message.”

The line clicks and he hears a heavy breath and then, “Hello Connor, this is Mark, this call is to inform you that you’ve been placed on waivers for the purpose of sending you back down to Grand Rapids. Our hope is that you’ll clear waivers and we can get you back and healthy in the minors. Call me if you have an questions.”

There’s a beep, “Second new message.”

There’s another heavy breath, “Good morning Connor. As of 5:12 this morning, the Quebec Nordiques have claimed you off of waivers. They’ll be in contact with you soon. Don’t hesitate to call if you have any questions or concerns. Good luck in Quebec City.”

Whiskey feels his hands shaking as the third message loads. It’s a woman’s voice that he hears. 

“Good morning, my name is Rebecca Ryder, I’m an assistant coach in Quebec City. I just wanted to take the time to welcome you to the team and let you know that I’ll be overseeing your injury and rehabilitation in QC. I look forward to meeting you properly.”

The GM in Detroit called to let him know he’d been traded at 5:16, Rebecca Ryder’s call came at 5:19. 

“Damn, she’s fast,” he mutters to himself. 

There’s another beep. 

“Good morning Connor,” a man’s voice, “I’m Fred Derochers, I wanted to introduce myself, I’ll be your general manager in Quebec City. Give me a call back when you get the chance, we’re happy to have you.”

Another beep, and then his mom’s voice, “Hello, honey. Your father is trying to explain to me what waivers are but could you call me back so we can know for sure what’s happened.”

And then another beep and Whiskey’s fucking tired of the beeps and his phone feels so heavy in his hands. And he doesn’t speak french. And he can’t play with Kent. He’ll go insane. He’ll drive Kent insane. He needs to get out. 

He drops his phone, not caring that it hits the hardwood, he just stands up and walks out the door. He doesn’t know where he’s going, just that he needs to go. And he’s taking the elevator to the lobby and blasting past the door man and out the front door. The wind hits him in the face, he looks up and sees snow blowing around the street but he keeps walking. He makes it half a block before he starts shivering, realizing he didn’t grab his jacket before he left. He’s breathing heavy and his legs are weak. He’s not sure if the twinge in his shoulder is real. He can’t tell what pain is genuinely there and what pain is his body tricking him into taking another pill anymore. He doesn’t carry the pill bottle in his pocket anymore. 

People are walking past him now, with their heads down as he just stands in the snow in the middle of the street with his eyes screwed shut. He feels a hand on his shoulder and jumps, he turns around and Tango’s standing behind him. His ever present sideways smile is replaced by a look of concern. 

Whiskey’s quiet, he doesn’t have words for this. He doesn’t know what to say. He just couldn’t be inside anymore.

Tango hands Whiskey the jacket that he hadn’t grabbed when he ran out the front door. Whiskey shrugs it on, letting one of the sleeves hang over his sling. 

“Wanna go for a walk?” Tango asks. 

Whiskey nods. He just focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, shoves his hand into his pocket. 

“I didn’t realize it was snowing when I left.”

“Yeah, you left in a hurry,” Tango says. 

“Thanks,” Whiskey mumbles.

“Told them you’d be fine, blowing off steam or whatever. But your jacket,” Tango gestures at the jacket and shrugs. 

“I didn’t like, freak anyone out?”

Tango shakes his head, “Bitty was worried but you’ve never not come back.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says quietly. 

“He’s making breakfast, but no rush to go back. Shitty and Lardo are still hanging out and I’m pretty sure Ford is on Yelp leaving one star reviews for the arena in Detroit to spite your former GM.”

Whiskey chuckles, something about the image of his tiniest friend hunched over her cell phone being as petty as possible in the name of his honour.

“Better than the steel toed boots,” Whiskey says. 

“I know she has a pair, for like theatre and stuff,” Tango says. 

Whiskey raises his eyebrow, “Spend a lot of time looking at Ford’s wardrobe?”

Tango rolls his eyes and smiles, “Fuck off,” he shoves both his hands into his pockets. 

“I think it’s sweet,” Whiskey says, “Considering you’ve been into her since sophomore year.”

“She doesn't want... I don't...It’s not a thing,” Tango says. 

“It’s a thing whether you call it one or not,” Whiskey says. 

“You just got traded, we can talk about me and Ford some other time.”

“I just got waived, which is worse, actually,” Whiskey says. 

Tango snorts, “Yeah okay. So what’s the worst that happens? You get to leave the shitty team you didn’t like playing for in the first place? You have to learn french?”

“Yeah, maybe Kent can teach me,” Whiskey deadpans. 

“Ooooh, fuck,” Tango says in a low voice, “So that’s…”

“So that’s,” Whiskey mocks, “Yeah that’s what this is.”

“Fuck dude, I’m sorry, I forgot.”

“It’s fine,” Whiskey says, and then he kicks an empty coffee cup down the street, “This just sucks.”

“Yeah,” Tango says, “Bitty made waffles though”

Whiskey looks at him for a beat.

“They don’t fix everything but they definitely won’t hurt.”

“T,” Whiskey says, “I just wanna scream. I don’t know what else to do. I feel like I’m working so hard and none of it pays off.”

Tango puts his hand on Whiskey’s shoulder. 

“Mixed berry waffles will definitely make you feel better.”

“Eating breakfast isn’t going to fix all my problems.”

“No, but you’re a professional athlete and Bitty has raspberry syrup.”

And honestly, that does sound pretty good. So he walks back to the building with Tango, walks into the condo and no one even acts like he was gone.

It’s 6am and Kent shouldn’t even be awake yet, his alarm goes off at 6:30, thank you very much. But Kit decided that today was the morning that she was going to test her ability to pounce on Kent’s chest. He woke up to the wind being knocked out of him and he hasn’t caught his breath since he turned on his phone and read the news. 

“I’m freaking the fuck out, Jack,” is the first thing Kent says. It was the first number he thought to dial.

«Give me a second» Jack says and he’s speaking french, why the fuck is he speaking french. 

“Why the fuck are you speaking french?”

«Because he’s here»

“Who?”

“Connor,” Jack says and Kent hears a door close.

“Oh fuck,” Kent says, “You know what, it’s fine, I shouldn’t have called you. You don’t need to get in the middle of this.”

“Kenny, don’t,” Jack says, “It’s fine, it was the hockey reunion last night and a bunch of people spent the night.”

“No, it’s… you’re friends. And I’m… fuck.”

“My friend, you’re my friend. Just because I’m not taking a side doesn’t mean you can’t talk to me about it,” Jack sighs, “and honestly if you ask me, you’re both on the same side.”

Kent doesn’t really hear the second part, doesn’t process it at least. 

“So I assume you saw the news then?” Jack says. 

“Yeah,” Kent answers. 

“And?” 

“Freakin’ the fuck out, Zimms,” Kent says. 

“Yeah, uh, that’s fair,” Jack says.

“Thank you, oh beacon of emotional intelligence,” Kent rolls his eyes. 

Kent hears Jack laugh softly on the other end. 

“You have at least a month until his shoulder’s solid enough to play again. And after that who knows whether he plays in the NHL right away. You don’t have to panic.”

“That’s the thing, I  _ want  _ him to succeed, just… this is what I wanted and now it feels like the universe is playing a cruel kind of fucking joke.”

“Yeah it kinda does,” Jack says. 

“And it’s not like I can rock up to the coaches and tell them why I can’t play with him. Like I’m out to the team and don’t get me wrong, that’s a relief and a half but, Connor’s not and I couldn’t do that to him.”

“You two could talk about it.”

“I haven’t talked to him since he broke up with me,” Kent mutters. 

“Well you’ll have to eventually.”

“Not if I can help it,” Kent says, stubborn. 

“Kenny,” Jack sighs. 

“What!” Kent half shouts, “Sorry,” he says, “It’s just, I can’t, okay? I  _ can’t _ and I know it’s stupid and so fucking high school of me but… I can’t let myself want him again.”

“He’s doing better, you know?” Jack says in a hushed tone. 

“Good,” Kent says, “Then he can keep doing well without me.”

Jack sighs deeply, “It’s not your fault.”

Kent shrugs, “He’s doing good, I don’t want to throw that off.”

“Whatever you think is best,” Kent can tell that Jack is holding back the way he actually feels. 

Kent clears his throat, “Well, I gotta hit the gym. I’ll see you soon, right?” it’s a reference to the fact that QC and Providence are playing the Winter Classic this year, a little less than a month away by now. 

“Yeah, Kenny. You know you can always talk whenever.”

“Yeah, thanks, Zimms.”

And then Kent sighs. He sees the texts from his teammates filling the team group chat asking if anyone knows anything about the new guy. Kent turns off his notifications. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway i'm pretty sure that LeapinGoldFish absolutely fucking called the "whiskey going to qc" plot point in the comments a couple chapters ago and they were absolutely right. Love that tbh. I hope you're enjoying it and comments are always appreciated! Y'all rock


	24. I don't think I could stand to be where you don't see me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's Whiskey's first day in QC and he keeps running into the last person he wants to see

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from francis forever by mitski

The first time Whiskey sees Kent in Quebec City is immediately before his first meeting with Rebecca Ryder. The Nordiques gave him a week to get his things sorted and move his things into a hotel in downtown Quebec City a few blocks away from the arena. They wanted him near the team’s facilities as soon as possible so they could assess his injury and figure out what to do with him from there. His assumption that “what to do with him,” is going to end up getting him sent down to the minors. 

He walks into the arena and takes a breath. He hears a conversation coming from somewhere. He’s heard a lot of strangely accented french since getting here, hums of conversation as he passes people. The street signs are mostly in french with english printed much smaller underneath. It’s a lot. 

He’s walking through the player’s area, looking very much like the confused new guy he is. And that’s when he hears it. 

It’s a laugh that he hasn’t heard in a while. There’s a group of them wearing underarmour, one of them with a towel around his shoulders. He recognizes Snowy from the Falcs and the rest of their faces look familiar. And of course, Kent, standing in the middle of them, laughing, a grin on his face that falls when his eyes land on Whiskey. 

“Yo, you’re the new guy,” one of them points at him, he’s tall with a patchy beard, broad shoulders and a gold tooth, “You lost?” he asks. 

“Uh,” Whiskey says, “I’m supposed to meet Rebecca Ryder before the game.”

“Oh yeah, for sure,” the man says, “Down the hall, her office is the third door on the left,” he points. 

“Thanks,” Whiskey says. Kent is looking directly at the floor, Whiskey won’t try and catch his eye. 

“I’m Gordon,” the guy says, “But call me Bobby, this is Danny, Kent Parson, Snowy, and Mouse, it’s good to have you,” he points at the guys as he introduces them.

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “Good to be here.”

“Samwell, right?” Mouse asks, keeping Whiskey standing there longer than he wants to be. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says. 

“I played junior with a guy who goes there now,” Mouse says. 

“Oh?” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah, River Bullard, you know him?”

“Oh, yeah, for sure,” Whiskey says, “Great guy. Cool bike.”

“Oh man, he still has the bike? That was the coolest when we were all like 17.”

Whiskey pretends to look at a watch he isn’t wearing. 

“I’ll uh, talk to you guys later, I don’t want to be late to talk to Coach Ryder,” Whiskey says. 

“For sure, she’s a scary lady when she wants to be,” Danny says. 

Whiskey walks past the group of players and walks down the hall. He has to fight every single part of himself not to turn around and see if Kent’s eyes are on him. He knocks on the third door on the left. 

“It’s open!” a woman’s voice comes from behind. 

So Whiskey eases the door open and steps into the office. 

“Coach Ryder?” he asks. 

The woman stands up from behind a desk. She’s taller than he was expecting her to be, probably almost 6 feet if he had to guess She’s wearing a sky blue ¾ zip pullover with the Nordiques logo on the shoulder. 

She holds her hand out for him to shake. Whiskey takes it with his good hand. 

“Rebecca,” she says, “Or you can call me Becks if you’re a nickname kind of guy,” she says.

She crosses her arms and looks him up and down. He’s wearing an old Samwell hoodie and a pair of khakis, his arm is still in the sling to keep his shoulder in one place but he’s got more motion in it than he did a couple weeks ago. 

“I’m Connor, but everyone calls me Whiskey, whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says, “Have a seat,” she takes the thin framed glasses off of her face and sets them down on the desk, she leans forward and Whiskey sits on the edge of the chair in front of her. 

“I’m glad to finally get to meet you,” Ryder says. 

Whiskey nods. 

“I wanted to get you here today to talk about the injury, where you’re going to fit on this team and our expectations moving forward,” she says, “Sound good.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” she says, “Okay to start, we’ll talk about the injury. Elephant in the room, all that shit.” She says, “We got all your medical records sent over from Detroit but why don’t you tell me how you got hurt,” Rebecca has a piece of paper in her hand. 

“Uh,” Whiskey says. 

She cocks an eyebrow at him and Whiskey feels like she’ll be able to see right through him the second he opens up his mouth to tell a lie. 

“Uh,” he starts, “It was that first preseason game I played with Detroit, I tore something but I went back to Grand Rapids and played through it.”

She nods, there’s not any judgement in the gesture and Whiskey lets out a breath. 

“Understood,” she says and crosses something off on the paper in front of her and scrawls something next to it. 

“And the surgery happened when?” She asks. 

“Uh, November 28, about two weeks ago now,” he says. 

“And how’d it go?”

“Doctors said it was fine, should heal normally.”

“Got it,” Rebecca makes another note, “We’ll connect you with our doctors and trainers after this.”

Whiskey nods. 

“Okay, that’s out of the way,” she says, “Let’s talk about your role.”

“I’m excited to contribute however I can,” Whiskey says with the same nervous cadence warranted by a job interview. 

“Good to hear,” Rebecca says flatly, “first and foremost, we’re going to lay out a schedule that gets you practicing with the team as fast as possible, no contact at first, we’ll assess from there, but ideally you crack the lineup for the Winter Classic on January 1.”

Whiskey swallows a lump in his throat, “I can’t get in any sooner,” that’s an entire month not playing games. 

“I won’t rule it out,” she says, “But the last thing we want is you hurting yourself again. I can see a place for you on this team. And I’ll be honest with you, the rest of the coaching staff doesn’t see it that way. I’m in your corner here, I can see you adding a lot of skill to the bottom of our lineup, but that’s only if you have two working shoulders. I can be patient with this.”

Whiskey nods, “Okay,” he takes a shaky breath. 

“The last thing I want to talk about is your living situation,” she says. 

“Oh, I’m staying downtown.”

“Right,” Rebecca says, “Well if you’re comfortable there you’re welcome to stay, but we think that it would be better for the transition if you stayed with someone on the team.”

Obviously Whiskey knows she’s not about to say Kent’s name, Kent wouldn’t let that happen. But there’s a split second where that’s a possibility, a split second where his heart stops. 

“Gordon Robertson has already offered up his guest bedroom for you to stay in until we find you somewhere more permanent. He’s got two daughters, but he assures me they’ll stay out of your hair.”

“Right,” Whiskey says, and he speaks before he can talk himself out of it, “that sounds great,” he says. 

“Alright, well that’s sorted, we’ll do your physical today if you’re up for it, chat with the doctors, trainers, nutritionists, we’ll get all that sorted and by the time we’re done the boys will be done practice and you can talk to Bobby and get yourself moved in.”

“Got it,” Whiskey says. 

Kent likes to think there’s not a lot that can rattle him. He’s played in the NHL for nearly a decade, there’s not a lot that he hasn’t seen. So he can handle seeing Whiskey once in passing. He can handle an ex-boyfriend, especially if he doesn’t have to talk to him. So he walks with his teammates into the dressing room and straps on his pads and he runs out onto the ice to practice. Becks shows up 15 minutes late and Kent is the only one who really notices. 

“Parson!” Barnesy shouts at him. 

“Yo!” He shouts back. 

“Your lace is busted,” Kent looks down and sees that his lace is in fact frayed in the middle, he’ll have to go get a new one. 

“Be right back,” he shouts to his coach and gestures at the busted lace. He slaps his skate guards over his blades and walks through the dressing room across the hallway to the equipment closet. The equipment managers sort the laces by colour and length so it takes him only a second to find the right one. He takes off his left skate and leans against the wall for balance and re-laces his skate and slides it back on. 

And then, because the universe wants him to suffer, the door to the trainer’s room opens and he sees Whiskey. He’s behind two of the trainers but Kent can see him clearly, with a look on his face that looks something like a scowl but without the malice. He’s pulling his shirt back on after, presumably, letting the trainers poke at him. It’s stupid of Kent to look for about a million different reasons, but the biggest one is that Whiskey sees him looking. Because looking is the first step to wanting and Kent Parson has an itemized list of things he’s not allowed to want and Connor Whisk is right there at the top. 

It’s even stupider for him to try to tie his skate while he’s leaning against the wall because he immediately loses his balances and falls backwards into the equipment room directly onto his ass. There’s a clatter as a few rolls of tape fall around him and Kent sees Whiskey jump, startled. And then Whiskey just stands there, looking like he doesn’t know what to do, and in Kent’s defense he wouldn’t know what to do in this situation either and one of the trainers extends his hand. 

“You okay, Parson,” he asks. 

“Slipped,” Kent says, “M’fine,” he says, very careful not to look at Whiskey. 

Kent helps himself up, “Busted a lace, needed a new one,” he says. 

“Have you met the new guy yet?” Another trainer asks, and Kent feels his face about to turn red. 

“We’ve met,” Kent says and he takes off down the hall, plastic skate guards clicking against the floor and he doesn’t give Whiskey a second look. He has to get back out on the ice, because Whiskey can’t follow him there yet. Because his feelings haven’t made their way into hockey just yet. 

And he skates right back into everything, a smile on his face, pushing Whiskey’s expression to the back of his mind. He takes a pass from Bobby and skates into the drill. Becks has put cones down on the ice and she’s working them through something long and complicated and Kent puts all of his attention on that, and he learns it quickly and Becks gives him a look of approval and he can work with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter will feature weird little girls and some processing of emotions and ~miscommunication~


	25. You're a tough kid, way tougher than me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whiskey gets settled in a new city

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from hand me downs by the arkells

It takes Whiskey a second to catch his breath when he sees Kent. Because their eyes locked for just a second and he’d paused. Not sure what to do, not sure what he was supposed to do, not sure what Kent wanted him to do. And then Kent was gone. And Whiskey could almost feel the chill in the air when Kent turned his back to him and walked down the hallway past the player’s lounge and onto the ice.

And Whiskey can’t explain why he’s left feeling like he has cotton balls in his mouth he just has to let the trainers keep talking to him and then the equipment manager walks in and measures him for new pads in the Nordiques colours and he asks him how he tapes a stick, and unlike when he was in Detroit, Whiskey says, 

“I like to do the tape myself if that’s okay with you,” in Detroit he didn’t think he could ask, but here, he feels like he has nothing to lose. 

“Yeah, that’s alright,” the older man, Jean says through a thick quebecois accent, “I’ll make sure to leave the tape out before the game, white or black?”

“Um, both, if that’s okay.”

The equipment manager pats him on the shoulder when he finally finishes everything there is to do. 

“You should catch the end of practice, I hear Bobby is waiting to meet you,” Jean says. 

“Right.” Whiskey says. 

And he wanders out into the player’s lounge and down the tunnel. It’s dark, painted dark red with the Nordiques logo slapped on the wall. 

And then he walks out onto the bench. The head coach is standing there. 

“Whisk,” he says. 

“Sir,” Whiskey holds out his good hand to shake. The coach shakes it. 

“Robert St. Marie,” he says. 

“Good to meet you,” Whiskey says. 

“Good to have you hear. Ryder’s filled you in, ah?” 

“Yes,” Whiskey says. 

“Man of few words?” Robert says, Whiskey just nods, “That’s fine. Might take some getting used to the loudmouths on this team,” Robert has his arms crossed, “The boys are just finishing up, then you can talk to Bobby.”

“Thank you,” Whiskey says. 

The players file off the ice slowly, in groups. He sees two defencemen walk past the bench and nod in Whiskey’s direction, and then Mouse and Danny. 

And then Kent. And Kent breezes past him with a blank expression. He doesn’t even look. And Whiskey thinks that’s for the best. But god, he just wants Kent to look at him. 

“Bobby!” Robert calls and gestures the man over to the bench. 

Bobby skates over and jumps the board. 

“You two meet yet?” Roberts asks. 

“Briefly,” Whiskey answers. 

“Becks fill you in on the plan?” Bobby asks. 

Whiskey nods. 

“Alright, sweet! We’re happy to have you,” Bobby says, “I’m gonna hit the shower but after I’ll come grab you and you can come meet Emily and the girls. Emily’s my wife, by the way.”

“Sure,” Whiskey says. 

And then Bobby shakes his hand and jogs down the tunnel towards the dressing room. 

Whiskey stays standing next to Coach Roberts watching the practice and Coach is talking to him but Whiskey feels like he has elevator music playing in his head while he watches. Rebecca Ryder is still out on the ice and she’s working with Kent and Whiskey can’t look anywhere else. 

“Ah, Parson,” Roberts nods, “He’s really holding these guys together.”

Whiskey clenches his jaw. 

“Look at those edges,” Roberts says as Kent zips around some cones and receives a pass that he shoots past Snowy. 

And it’s beautiful and efficient and smooth and that’s how Kent plays hockey. And Whiskey can’t help that his eye is drawn to such amazing hockey. That’s all. 

“Rebecca has a lot of faith that she can work with you and get you skating liket that, that something you’re interested in?”

“Yes sir,” Whiskey says. 

The pair of defensemen that Whiskey saw earlier skate off the ice one after the other. One turns. 

“Parser!” He shouts. 

Kent turns, “Hurry up if you want a ride to Danny’s!” 

“Okay, give me five!” Kent shouts back. 

“Oh, you’re the new guy,” one of the d-men says to Whiskey, “I’m David, but call me Barnesy, this is Jonesy.”

Jonesy talks next, “It’s board game night at Danny’s, you should swing by after you talk to Bobby.”

“Uh, we’ll see, Whiskey says.”

“Sweet,” the two guys say in unison. 

And then Kent steps off the ice and breezes past them and he doesn’t even look at Whiskey, he mumbles, 

“Coach,” nods and then picks up his pace like Whiskey isn’t even there. 

So Whiskey won’t be going to board game night. 

Whiskey answers a couple more of the coach’s questions, he asks if he likes the facilities and Whiskey says he does and he asks if the training staff were helpful and Whiskey says they were and he asks what he thinks of the team and Whiskey say they seem cool and then Bobby shows up next to him. 

“You ready to rock and roll?” Bobby asks. 

“Uh, yeah,” Whiskey says. 

“Great,” Bobby says, “If it’s okay with you coach?” Bobby asks. 

“By all means,” Roberts says. 

It’s not that Whiskey’s not listening to Bobby it’s just that sometimes his brain goes on autopilot while someone talks to him, and that’s what he does in Bobby’s truck. His backpack is thrown in the backseat next to a booster seat. Bobby lives in the suburbs, which makes sense. There’s a garden in the front lawn but everything’s brown and muddy right now. It snowed a few days ago and now everything’s wet. The front door is painted a lime green and it matches the mailbox. It looks nice, Whiskey thinks it does at least. In sort of a classy but unique way. 

Bobby unlocks the front door and Whiskey trails behind him. Immediately he hears two sets of footsteps running down the hallway.

“Daddy!” it’s a girl’s voice. 

There are two of them and Bobby picks both of them up easily. 

A woman walks out of the kitchen with a smile on her face. Bobby sets the kids down and kisses her on the cheek. 

“I missed my girls,” Bobby says and then kisses each of his daughters on the tops of their heads. 

The smaller of the two girls won’t stop looking at Whiskey. It’s like she’s looking directly through him. Her eyes are narrowed like she knows all his secrets. 

“This is Connor,” Bobby says and crouches down to put his arms around both of them, “He’s going to stay with us for right now, he’s on the team.”

“What position do you play?” the older looking one asks. 

“Uh, I’m a centre.”

“Hm,” she huffs, unimpressed, “I’m a goalie.”

He looks down at her combination of fairy wings and what looks like a lizard costume and thinks,  _ of course you are.  _

“Be nice,” the woman warns. 

“Connor,” Bobby says, “These are my girls. Piper,” he pats the goalie on the head, “And Avery,” he pats the smaller one on the head. 

“Uh, hi,” Connor says. 

“What’s wrong with your arm?” Piper asks. 

“Complicated,” Whiskey answers.

“I’m Emily,” the woman says, “We’re happy to have you,” she cuts off her daughter’s questions.

The smaller one is still looking at him with narrowed eyes. Emily pats both of the girls on the back, “Come on, you’re going to help me make dinner while Daddy shows Connor his room.”

Bobby kisses Emily, on the lips this time. Connor never really saw his parents show much affection and he’s not sure if this is how people act. 

Bobby leads Connor past the stairs at the entryway to the house and down another set of stairs near the sliding glass door in the back of the house. 

“The basement is basically yours,” Bobby says, “The girls have a playroom upstairs and we’ll tell them not to bother you. Sorry about the mess,” Bobby says of the couple toys scattered in the den in the basement. 

Bobby pushes open a door and shows Connor into what looks like an entirely average guest room. Whiskey sets his backpack on the bed. Bobby sits on the edge. 

“So is this good?” Bobby asks. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “I uh, yeah.”

“Okay, great,” Bobby says, “Well. Jonesy and Barnesy told me they invited you to Danny’s, I’m about to head out if you want to come?”

And it seems like a good way to get to know his team. But Kent’s going to be there… and if Kent can’t even look at him then he doesn’t want to ruin the night for both of them. 

“I’m really tired,” Whiskey says, “It’s been a long day, so I’ll just stay here if that’s okay with you,” Whiskey says. 

“You got it, kid,” Bobby says, “I’ll leave ya to it.”

Whiskey doesn’t have a lot to unpack, they’re going to bring the rest of his stuff from the hotel room here tomorrow but for now he puts his hoodies in the top drawer of the dresser beside the bed and his pants underneath of that. He pulls on an old SMH hoodie because it’s cold in the basement and then he flops down on to the bed. 

Time must pass because when he opens his eyes it’s darker in the room, the sunlight no longer comes in from the narrow window near the ceiling, and Emily is standing at his door, which Bobby left open before he headed out for board game night. 

“Hey,” Emily says softly, probably assuming Whiskey was just asleep, which, fair game he might have been. 

“Hey,” Whiskey says. 

“We made dinner if you want to come upstairs,” Emily says. 

Whiskey finds himself thrust into weird situations frequently. And mostly he just rolls with it because he has no other option.Four years at Samwell taught him how to go with the flow, so he just gets up. As weird as it is to be in a stranger’s house, he just follows her upstairs. 

The two girls are sitting at the table already. 

“I made green curry, I hope that’s okay,” Emily says. 

“It’s your house,” Whiskey mumbles. 

“If you don’t like it I can make something else,” she says quickly. 

“No, it’s perfect,” Whiskey says, and realizes that maybe he sounded rude, “It smells great.”

He sits down. Whiskey doesn’t know a lot about kids, but he thinks it’s pretty impressive that Emily and Bobby can convince them to eat this many vegetables at once. 

Piper is still wearing her lizard costume but she’s ditched the fairy wings by now. 

“Why aren’t you with Daddy if you play on his team?” Piper asks. 

Avery still hasn’t said a single word in Whiskey’s presence. 

“Piper, remember what I told you about asking questions?”

“Aw, that one wasn’t even that blunt,” Piper whines. 

“Context, honey,” Emily says, “Connor had a long day.”

“Hmm,” Piper says like she doesn’t quite trust it. 

Whiskey has quite literally no idea how to deal with that. When he worked at tennis camp over the summers, he had something to do. The kids would ask weird questions but he could deflect by bringing it back to their lessons. Here, he has nothing to offer this kid. 

“Why don’t you live by yourself?” Piper asks. 

“Piper!” Emily scolds. 

“Come on, I’m just trying to talk to the guy,” Piper gestures in a way that is entirely stolen from Bobby’s mannerisms. 

Whiskey clears his throat, “Lots of players live with older guys when they get to new teams.”

“That makes sense, my dad’s really old.” 

Avery still hasn’t said a word. Even as she eats her dinner she’s staring daggers at Whiskey. 

Emily spoons seconds onto Whiskey’s plate, which is a relief because he wasn’t going to ask for them. 

“What’s an SMH?” Piper asks. 

“Samwell Men’s Hockey,” Whiskey answers, “I played hockey there before I played in the NHL.”

“Where’s that?”

“Massachusetts, it’s a university.”

“Hmm,” Piper says, “Neat! How old are you? I’m 9 but I’ll be 10 in February.”

“24,” Whiskey answers. Avery’s still staring at him and he has no idea how to get her to stop. 

“Woah,” Piper says, “I’m going to play for Concordia when I’m older and then I’ll be in the Olympics.”

“Can’t wait to see you win gold,” Whiskey says and he sees Emily smile a little bit. 

“Have you ever gone to the Olympics?”

“Uh, no,” Whiskey says, “I’m not that good.”

“Hmm,” Piper says. And she seems to say that a lot. 

“May I be excused,” Piper says. 

“Yes,” Emily says, “You can go too, Avery.”

Avery shakes her head and she stays exactly where she is, staring lasers at Whiskey. 

“Let me help,” Whiskey says when Emily starts clearing away dishes. 

“Oh, you don’t have to,” she says. 

“No, it’s fine,” Whiskey says, honestly just happy for an excuse to get away from Avery’s glare. 

As if on cue, the second they’ve loaded the dishwasher, Piper walks into the kitchen with Avery in tow. She’s holding Candy Land up towards Emily and Whiskey. 

“Will you play with us?” Piper asks. 

“I would love to,” Emily says, “But Connor doesn’t have to play with you, remember, how we talked about?” Emily asks. 

Whiskey quickly shakes his head. What else can he do? Go to his room and keep sulking? 

“I’ll play,” he says, “Candy Land is cool.”

And Emily smiles at him again. She sets up shop in the living room, sets some pillows on the floor and makes a bowl of popcorn to share. Piper lays on her stomach and Avery sits next to her with an eerily perfect posture. She rolls the dice and takes her turn without saying a word. 

“Yes!” Piper pumps her fist when she passes Avery on her first turn. Avery scowls. 

Whiskey rolls and takes his turn and he’s mostly happy just not to be alone. Piper wins and Emily reminds her to “win with sportsmanship,” and she then proceeds to shake everybody’s hands and say “good game.”

“Alright young ladies, bed time,” Emily claps her hand. 

“Can we play another game?” Piper asks. 

“Did you not hear me?” Emily says, slightly amused. 

Piper groans, “I want to play with Connor some more.”

“Pipes, he’s not here to play with you,” Emily reminds her. 

“I’ll be here in the morning,” Whiskey says, very carefully trying not to contradict what Emily said but also letting Piper know that he’s down for more Candy Land. 

“Come on, teeth brushed, pajamas on.”

And Piper groans and stomps up the stairs. Avery follows behind quietly while Emily ushers them up the stairs. 

Whiskey tidies up the living room. He’s sitting on the couch liking some Instagram posts when Emily comes back down the stairs.

“Thank you for playing with them,” Emily says, “They think you’re really cool, but you definitely don’t have to do that all the time.”

“It’s fine,” Whiskey says, “They’re good kids.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Emily says and she walks through the living room and into the kitchen, “I’m going to have a glass of wine,” she says, “You want anything.”

“Oh,” Whiskey says, “No thanks.”

“We also have some Whiskey, it’s Gord’s but he won’t mind.”

“Still no thanks,” Whiskey says. 

“Okay,” Emily says and she leaves for a minute and comes back to the kitchen with a glass of red wine and sits on the couch next to Whiskey. 

“Is Avery always that quiet, or is it just me?”

Emily frowns, “It’s not you. We think the move was hard on her, she hasn’t talked much since we got here.”

“Oh,” Whiskey says. 

“Her pediatrician says it’s a natural response to a small traumatic event, because apparently moving is traumatic for a little kid,” she sighs. 

“I can see that,” Whiskey says. 

“It’s really not fair on them. Gord doesn’t get a say in any of this but they get even less of a say.”

“I know the feeling,” Whiskey says. 

“Oh honey,” Emily puts her hand on Whiskey’s shoulder. 

“It’s not a big deal,” Whiskey says. 

“I’m sure it can’t feel great, getting waived like that. Especially while you’re hurt.”

Whiskey just shrugs. 

“Feels mean sometimes, the way they treat you guys.”

“It’s a business,” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah,” Emily says. 

Bobby gets back and finds Kent and Emily sitting on opposite ends of the couch, Emily showing Whiskey pictures of baby Piper in baby goalie gear, Whiskey smiling, Emily’s cheeks red from the wine. And Emily looks up and smiles at her husband and he bends down to kiss her on the forehead and then sits in the recliner next to the couch. 

“How was it?” Emily asks. 

“It was great. Snowy is sneaky good at monopoly.”

And for some reason, Whiskey thought that board game night was a euphemism for going out and drinking, but Bobby talks about the actual board games they played and how Barnesy and Jonesy always cheat at Uno. 

“You should come next time, Whisk,” Bobby says, “The guys were all wondering where you were.”

“He played Candy Land with me and the girls.”

“Aw man, I’m jealous,” Bobby says with a smile and Whiskey smiles too. 

“I should head to bed,” he says. 

“For sure,” Emily says, “Just ask if you need anything.”

“Will do,” Whiskey says. 

He brushes his teeth and puts on his pajamas and goes to sleep feeling like things aren’t just okay, but they might just be genuinely good for the first time in a long time. 

His alarm goes off at the same time it does every morning, reminding him to go for a run. And he has to keep the pace down because of his arm, but he still jogs every day. He doesn’t quite know where to go around here. So he puts on his clothes and walks upstairs and he’s not expecting to find Emily in the kitchen at 5:30 standing over the kitchen island.

“Oh,” he says, “Hi.”

“Good morning,” she says, “I didn’t expect you to be up this early.”

“I always get up early,” Whiskey says. 

“Me too,” Emily answers, “Lunches don’t make themselves,” and she holds up two lunch boxes. 

“Right,” Whiskey says. 

“What are you up so early for.”

“Gonna go for a run,” he says. 

“Oh, of course,” she says, “Careful on the ice.”

“I will be,” he says. 

He slips the second he walks out the front door, catches himself on the handle but it’s enough to make him shuffle down the driveway until he gets to the sidewalk which is shoveled and salted. 

It’s strange, being here, but comfortable at the same time. Like he’s staying at a friend’s house. Nothing quite feels like his but he doesn’t feel like he’s intruding either. Which is a strange feeling, considering he only met these people last night. 

He does a few laps around the block, not wanting to get lost, before he returns. The tips of his ears are red and his hands are starting to get cold when he opens the front door and walks back inside. 

The house is louder than it was when he’d left. He hears Piper shouting something about hockey practice and Emily is yelling up the stairs at Bobby asking him to grab her something and Whiskey just walks into the chaos. Avery is sitting on the floor, fully dressed with her backpack on. 

Bobby runs down the stairs, “Is this the one you needed,” he’s holding up a light blue windbreaker.

“It’ll do,” she says and snatches it from him. 

"Alright Mon petite filles, to the car!” She announces. 

“Moooom,” Piper says, “It’s Mes, non Mon, because there’s more than one of us.”

“Alright, missy,” Emily says, “We can’t all be perfectly bilingual, now can we?”

“It’s literally so easy,” Piper says as Emily marches them out the door and towards her car. 

“Sorry about that,” Bobby says when the door closes behind them, “We’re a little hectic in the morning.”

“I lived in a frat house,” Whiskey says, “That was nothing.”

“You headed to the rink today?” Bobby asks. 

Whiskey nods, Becks wants to have another meeting with him and start him on a physio plan. 

“Great, I’ll drive you. We’ve got morning skate.”

“Gotcha,” Whiskey says. 

“Be ready in an hour,” Bobby says. 

So Whiskey showers and gets dressed and eats breakfast and he’s still ready 20 minutes early because he just wants to get to the rink, he just wants to be on the ice at the practice facility, no matter what the reason. 

Bobby listens to 80s rock radio on the drive in, which Whiskey affectionately tells him is, “Dad rock.”

“Alright,” Bobby says when they walk in, “Becks’ office is that way,” he points down one of the hallways near the concourse, the layout of the practice rink is slightly different than the one at the main rink. 

So Whiskey walks down the hallway and he can hear someone talking, coming in the other direction, he looks up and sees the two defensemen from yesterday, Kent standing in the middle of them. And Kent’s eyes immediately fly up to the ceiling as he keeps talking to the defensemen, like Whiskey’s not even there. And things feel a lot less good than they did last night, because that’s going to be something. And it’s not going to end well. 

“Coach?” Whiskey knocks on the doorframe. 

Becks is sitting at the edge of her desk, glasses pushed up into her hair and she beckons for him to come in. She has a projector set up and there’s game footage playing, projected at her whiteboard, his game footage, he realizes. 

“Morning,” she says. 

“Morning,” Whiskey says back. 

“So, here’s the plan,” Whiskey notices that she seems to like giving him plans, “First we’ll watch some tape, see where you have room to improve, then you’re going to talk to the doctor and then you’re home free.”

“Got it,” Whiskey says, “Am I coming to the game tonight?” He asks.

“What, to sit in the press box? Nah, you don’t have to.”

And Whiskey nods, because as cool as it would be to see his team skate together, he doesn’t want to chance running into Kent. It’s something he’ll have to deal with, but not now. 

He sits on the couch in Becks’ office with her while she points to certain flaws in his game. She points out habits that he picked up in Detroit, puck hogging because there was no one else to score, not playing as much defence as he should, because he needed to score. And he frowns the entire time. Because the player on that tape looks selfish, and he looks… out of it. He didn’t realize how tired he was until he saw the way he skated in Detroit, choppy and desperate and like he thought he was the only man on the ice. 

“So that’s what we don’t want,” Becks says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says with a lump in his throat. 

“I can show you what we do want.”

Becks hits a few buttons on her iPad and Whiskey’s expecting to see footage of another player, someone that he’s supposed to aspire to. But instead he sees Samwell red, and he sees a shift from his last year, the semi-finals and he sees himself on a line with Tango and he looks… he doesn’t know, but he looks different. More comfortable, less tired, definitely not strung out like he looked in Detroit. Becks is showing him a play that he remembers, when he took the puck around the back of the opposing team’s net. He remembers looking around for a passing lane and finding one instantly because Bully was exactly where he was supposed to be. And Bully scored, right off the pass. And Becks doesn’t cut the tape right after the goal, she lets Whiskey watch the celebration, let’s him watch Tango tackling Bully and pulling Whiskey in for a hug. And then she stops it. When Whiskey’s blinking away tears and being glad that Becks probably can’t see them in the dim light of the room.

“I just want you to know that you have the potential to be what we’re asking. You see the game remarkably well for someone who was undrafted out of college. You’ve been a playmaker, you’ve been a team player. We want to get you to a place where you are that again, does that sound fair?”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says and then he clears his throat. 

“Good,” Becks says, “First step is getting that shoulder checked out.”

Whiskey’s relieved to get out of the shoulder sling after the team doctor checks him out. He has him raise his arm above his head and Whiskey’s shocked to realize that he can almost do it. There’s a little bit of tension, a little bit of soreness, but it’s nothing like it used to be. 

“And the pills?” The doctor asks at the end of the visit. 

Whiskey’s been being careful. They say “take as needed” but he’s amended that to, “take once a day at  _ most,  _ you fucking disaster,” and he’s stuck with it. 

“I’m taking them less and less,” Whiskey says. 

“Good,” The doctor says, “So you won’t need a refill?”

And it’s hard and he feels like he’s swallowing his tongue, but he says, “No,” and he means it. 

He gets to go home before the rest of the team, he just takes a cab, doesn’t want to ask Bobby to leave the morning skate to drop him off at home and then come back. Emily’s car isn’t in the driveway, he realizes it’s about the time when she’d be picking the kids up from school. So he sits on the porch steps and waits. It’s not a big deal, he’s patient. It only takes five minutes for her to pull into the driveway and start apologizing profusely and saying, “We have got to get you your own key.”

Piper just looks at him, and then at his arm and then up at his face, “Your arm’s better,” she says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey answers. 

“Are you gonna play again soon?” She asks. 

“By next month,” Whiskey tells her, “I’m getting better but I have to get my arm strong enough.”

“I can help!” She says enthusiastically. 

“Pipes, don’t pester,” Emily reminds her. 

“I was just gonna ask if he wants to take shots on me.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “That’d be cool.”

Emily sighs, “Unpack your lunch box first and then you can play outside.”

“Okay,” Piper and Whiskey say in unison. 

Whiskey puts on a jacket and finds his hockey gloves and grabs one of his sticks. Piper’s put on her goalie equipment and stands in the net in front of the garage. Avery’s outside too but she’s sitting on the porch, just watching, bundled up in a jacket and a scarf.

“I’ll warn you,” Piper says, “I’m pretty good.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Whiskey says. 

“No slapshots,” Emily shouts from the kitchen. 

“You got it!” Whiskey shouts back. 

Just having his gloves on his hands feels really really good. He could never forget how to hold a stick, it just settles into the exact right parts of his hand every time and he loves it for that. Even if he is standing in a driveway, even if he is playing against a little girl, it feels like home again. 

Piper wasn’t lying, she is pretty good. She takes it seriously, dropping to her knees, flashing the blocker, even making a really impressive glove save on a shot that Whiskey really thought was going to go in. He sneaks a lot past her, but she’s satisfied with herself.

Emily calls them for dinner, and Whiskey hadn’t realized they’d been outside for that long. Avery stands up and silently walks inside. 

“Wash up,” Emily pats Piper on top of her helmet, “You too,” she looks at Whiskey. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says and heads to the bathroom to wash his hands. 

He grabs some plates without being asked and sets the table. The normalcy of it all is comforting. 

“You know, you might have a generational talent out there in the driveway,” Whiskey says. 

Emily laughs, “If she eats all her vegetables, we might.”

Whiskey laughs along with her. They all sit in the living room and watch the Nordiques game together, the girls are allowed to stay up for the whole thing since it’s not a school night. Piper narrates the entire time. 

“I wouldn’t have done that,” she says when Snowy lets in a bad goal and Whiskey has to contain a chuckle. 

“He’s so good,” Piper says when Kent takes a faceoff and Whiskey has to bite back a scowl, “What a pair of hands.” 

She asks Whiskey all kinds of questions too, asks him what she thinks of certain plays and moves and she says, “I bet you would have scored that goal” and she asks him if they can play more tomorrow and he agrees. 

And just before the end of the second period, he feels someone pulling on the sleeve of his sweater. It’s Avery, still characteristically quiet, but she’s holding up a piece of paper and she hands it to Whiskey. It’s drawn in crayon but it’s very clearly a picture of Piper in her goalie gear and Whiskey holding his stick standing in front of their house. 

“Is this for me?” Whiskey asks. 

And Avery nods. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

And she nods again and goes back to a different colouring page, completely unaware that she’s just made a fully grown adult man tear up over some construction paper and crayons. 

Whiskey plays mini sticks in the basement with Piper because it rains in the morning and they can’t go outside. 

“Are you excited to get to play again?” she asks seriously. 

“It’s complicated,” Whiskey answers. 

“How can hockey be complicated,” Piper asks, genuinely perplexed.

Whiskey shrugs, “Grown up stuff.”

“Hmm,” Piper says, “Hockey’s not grown up stuff. Even if grownups play it. It’s a game.”

Whiskey laughs, “I got hurt really bad in Detroit and I tried to keep playing anyway…”

“Yeah, because it’s hockey, I always want to be playing too.”

“I guess it was a little bit of that,” Whiskey says. 

“What else was it?”

“You don’t need to worry about it.”

“No, I wanna know.”

“Well I guess I knew if I didn’t keep playing I’d lose my spot on the team. And I was right, since I’m here.”

“But you have a new spot now,” she points out. 

“I might lose that one too.”

“Then you’ll definitely find a new one. There’s always somewhere to play hockey.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “I guess.”

“Like last year I didn’t make the travel team so I tried out for the boys team at my school and I got a spot there.”

Whiskey just smiles. 

“And there was this one boy who  _ hated  _ me because his brother was the other goalie on the team and I got to start more games than he did and he never talked to me and he never did drills with me in practice, but I kept playing anyway, because he’s just a stinky boy.”

“All boys are stinky,” Whiskey says. 

“Even you?”

“Even me sometimes,” Whiskey says. 

“I don’t believe it. You’re too nice.”

Whiskey wonders if there’s anyone else in the world who has that opinion of him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i would kill for these weird little girls


	26. There's an ache in you, put there by the ache in me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whiskey hits the ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from 'tis the damn season by taylor swift because fuck yeah it is

The red non-contact jersey is staring Whiskey in the face. He’s alone in the Nordiques practice dressing room, the rest of the team is already on the ice. He’s wearing everything else, his pads, his pants, his skates. All he has to do is slip it over his head, all he has to do is put it on. His hand is starting to shake. He feels what he’s learned to call fake pain, a twinge in his shoulder. He knows it’s not there, it’s his brain trying to trick him. He breathes through it, shakes his shoulder out to remind himself that it’s getting better. 

He reaches for the non-contact jersey, pulls it off the hook in the stall. It’s felt real for a while, being in Quebec City at least. He’s come to accept that he lives here, but playing here? That’s a whole new thing to accept. The jersey is blank, it’s just red, but it has the words, “property of the Quebec Nordiques,” in the tag. 

He slips it over his head and gets on with it. He tugs at it a little and clears his throat. He walks to the ice before he can talk himself out of it. He stands on the bench until Coach St. Marie sees him standing. He blows his whistle, ending the casual shootaround that they’d been doing before Whiskey showed up. 

“Circle up, boys,” St. Marie instructs, “You too Whisk, join in.”

Whiskey follows instructions and jumps over the bench and onto the ice. He stands next to Bobby, St. Marie stands in the middle of the circle. 

“You know the drill, guys, non-contact for Whisk. Let’s stretch, Bobby, you’re up.”

They tap their sticks against the ice as Bobby leads them through some stretches. Whiskey has to admit, it feels good to use his muscles like this again. It feels good to feel the ice, solid underneath of him. 

Kent’s across the circle from him. He’s got his gaze turned down, he’s not looking at Whiskey. In the weeks since he’s showed up, Kent hasn’t looked at him once. Whiskey looks though, he can’t help it. Kent’s flexible, more than he probably should be at his age. Everything he does, he does easily. Whiskey feels stiff and creaky in comparison. 

Whiskey looks up and sees Becks standing with one of the video coaches in the penalty box, she’s gesturing to something and they’re talking. 

He takes a breath. It feels good to use these muscles, but they’re stiff and sore. 

Coach takes them through a simple passing drill. Whiskey thinks it’s to ease him into the practice. He doesn’t know how Kent manages to never pass to him, but he does it, and he does it for the entire practice. Even when they scrimmage and Kent is literally on his team, he still manages not to be on the ice at the same time as Whiskey. And when they all head off the ice, Kent skips the showers and puts on his street clothes and mumbles about, “I got somewhere to be,” and fucks off before anyone even hits the dressing room. 

Whiskey’s sore. Bobby claps him on his good shoulder. 

“How do you feel, kid?”

“Tired,” Whiskey admits. 

“Par for the course,” Bobby says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “I’ll probably take a nap when we get home.”

“Becks wants to talk to you first,” Bobby says. 

“Oooooh,” Jonesy chirps from across the locker room.

“C. Whisk is in trouuuuble,” Barnesy adds. 

Whiskey rolls his eyes. 

“You guys are idiots,” Mouse says. 

“I’ll swing by her office in like 15?” Bobby asks, “Then we’ll head home.”

Whiskey nods. 

Becks is in her office, beckons Whiskey in when she sees him. 

“I liked what I saw today,” Becks says. 

Whiskey shrugs, “I wasn’t that great. I’m slow.”

She shakes her head, “Getting on the ice was all I wanted from you today, Whisk, you know that right?”

And honestly, he didn’t. Because he fucked up the drills, even the simple ones, and he was more in the way during the scrimmage than anything else.

“No,” Whiskey says, “I expect more of myself than just getting on the ice.”

She nods, “I know you do.”

“So you can see why I’m not satisfied?”

“Yes,” Becks says, “Obviously. But  _ I’m _ satisfied. I need you to start somewhere and getting on the ice was that somewhere today. You did good. Coming back from an injury is hard and it’s been weeks since you’ve played meaningful hockey and longer since you’ve played meaningful hockey in a healthy and sustainable way. You can’t start rebuilding until you fix the foundation, does that make sense?”

“I guess,” Whiskey says. 

“You guess?” She asks. 

“It’s hard to see it like that,” Whiskey says. 

“I get it. Trust the process,” Becks says. 

“I’ll try.”

“Good.”

And that ends the conversation. He gets a ride home with Bobby and Bobby throws open the door. Whiskey hears running. Being greeted by Piper and Avery every time they walk into the door is, he can’t lie, one of the best parts of his day. Piper and Avery fling themselves at Bobby and Avery shows Whiskey a new crayon drawing and Piper immediately says. 

“Can we set the net up in the driveway?”

Whiskey always looks at Bobby for permission, and Bobby always nods. The days Bobby is home for dinner are Whiskey’s favourite. He’ll never say it out loud, but he likes being here far more than he ever liked being alone. He likes listening to Piper talk wildly about her day and he likes Bobby asking Avery about hers and having Avery answer exclusively in nods or a shake of her head. Emily makes sure dinner fits in their meal plans and she asks Whiskey how practice was and then she asks Piper how practice was. And Whiskey thinks that this is how it’s supposed to be. Laughing and talking and genuine interest instead of awkward silences and uncertainty at the family dinner table. 

The hardest day is when Bobby and the rest of the Nordiques leave for the California road trip. Whiskey isn’t going, they don’t need him, there’s no reason to. He can accept that, it makes sense. It’s not hard. What is hard is listening to Piper and Avery cry. Piper’s not an emotional kid, excitable? Yes, but emotional? Not really. Whiskey’s seen her get hurt and he’s seen her get upset, but he’s never seen her really sob like she does the morning Bobby leaves. 

Bobby scoops her up in his arms and hugs her, Whiskey doesn’t want to intrude, but he’s helping Bobby take his suit to the car and he just so happens to be there when Piper cries. 

“It’s just five days,” Bobby says, “And then I’ll be back home and then no more away games until after Christmas, okay?”

“Five days is forever,” Piper keeps crying. 

“It’s only three hockey practices,” Bobby says, “And I want to hear about all of them when I get home.” 

Piper sniffles and nods. 

“Can you tell mom to let me stay up to watch your games?” she asks. 

Bobby laughs, “Do you want to get me killed.”

And that makes Piper laugh too, before she starts crying again and buries her head in Bobby’s shoulder.

“Five days,” Bobby says, “And then we’ll have the best Christmas ever, okay?”

“Okay,” Piper finally says. 

Avery is sitting at the top of the stairs. She’s been silent all day, refusing to even look at Bobby. 

“Can I at least get a hug, Aves?” Bobby calls up the stairs. 

Whiskey hears her footsteps, slowly walking down. She wraps her arms around Bobby’s legs and then steps back. 

“I’ll see you soon,” Bobby say and then he kisses the top of her head. 

Emily kisses him goodbye at the door and Whiskey carries his suit to the car for him. 

“Does leaving ever not suck?” Whiskey asks. 

“It used to be cool,” Bobby says, “But then you have a family and it feels like you’re leaving something more important than you’re going to,” he sighs. 

Whiskey nods, “I get that.”

“Take care of them, man,” Bobby says, and Whiskey nods. He will. 

Whiskey knows how to isolate, he’s an expert in it by now. He did it all the time in Detroit. Whiskey heads downstairs after Bobby leaves, because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself. There’s no practice to go to, no game to get ready for. So he sits in his room on his phone, in the dark for hours. He hears Emily taking the kids to school, he ventures upstairs for lunch, but beyond that, he’s alone.

Isolation in Detroit was easy. It’s harder here, because here there’s a precocious nine year old who knows where he sleeps and wants him to teach her how to take a slapshot. He hears the door open a little after 3, hears Piper and Avery throw their schoolbags down, and he hears Piper run through the kitchen and down the stairs and then she’s banging on his door. 

“Connor?” She asks. 

He hears Emily shouting at Piper not to bother him. 

“Connor we played floor hockey in gym today and my team lost, will you help me with my shot?”

And that pulls Whiskey out of bed, almost instantly. Because, yeah, actually, he would like to help her with her shot. He opens his door and she’s standing there looking at him. 

“It totally wasn’t fair, it was boys against girls and I’m the only girl who plays hockey in my class and the boys were total jerks and made me play forward and the girl they put in net was scared of getting hit because she only had a helmet and they kept taking slapshots and if we play again after the winter break, I want to wipe the floor with them.”

Whiskey breaks out into a smile. He puts his hand on top of her head and nods. 

“Grab your stuff, let’s go.”

“Connor, you’re allowed to say no!” Emily shouts down the stairs. 

“He  _ wants  _ to mom!” Piper shouts back. 

“Pipes,” she warns. 

“It’s okay,” Whiskey says as he walks through the kitchen holding his gloves. They grab their sticks from the garage. Piper trades her goalie stick for a forward’s. 

So Whiskey shows her the right way to hold a stick when she wants to take a shot, teaches her the differences between a forward’s shot and a goalie’s shot and by the time Emily’s calling them in for dinner, Whiskey thinks she has the hang of it. Piper eats faster than Whiskey thought was possible and pushes her plate out of the way. 

“Can we go back outside?” she asks. 

Emily looks at Connor, “You don’t want to wear him out, Pipes,” Emily says. 

“She’s not,” Whiskey says, “I’d actually really like to, it’s like practice for me too.”

Emily looks at the clock, “Well, it’s not a school night, so go ahead.”

“Thanks, mom!” Piper says and leaps up from the table. 

Whiskey gets up, before he leaves he looks at Avery, still sitting at the table. 

“Do you wanna come?” he asks. 

Avery’s face lights up, though she doesn’t say anything, just nods. She holds her arms out and Piper rolls her eyes at her little sister. 

“It means she wants you to pick her up.”

“Oh.” Whiskey says, “That’s… that’s okay?” He’s looking at Emily for that. 

“You should be honoured,” Emily says. 

So Whiskey picks her up and he makes sure that she puts her coat on and has her mittens on the right fingers before they head outside, and she’s quiet but she doesn’t look unhappy. 

She sits on the front porch after Whiskey asks her if she wants to play and she shakes her head. 

“You’re getting way better already,” Whiskey says to Piper. 

“Thanks, I still like being in net better though. This is just to prove the stupid boys wrong.”

Whiskey smiles. 

“Obviously.”

They take shots, mostly in silence until Piper says, 

“When you’re better and playing games again, you’re gonna have to leave with dad too, aren’t you?”

Whiskey doesn’t lie as a general rule, and he especially won’t lie to kids, so he nods. 

“I’ll always come back, just like your dad.”

“Hm,” she says, and she leans on her stick, “Fine.”

Whiskey just smiles, he pats her on the top of the head. 

“Come on, we should head in.”

“Ugh,” Piper says. 

Avery sticks her bottom lip out and pouts. 

“Yep, you too,” and then he picks her up and throws her over his shoulder. 

He hears her giggle, and it’s the first time he’s heard anything out of her mouth since he got here. 

When Whiskey comes upstairs at 6:00 the next morning to run, Piper is sitting on top of the counter waiting for him. 

“What are you doing up?” he asks, “It’s Saturday.”

“What are  _ you  _ doing up?” She asks him. 

“I run every morning,” he says. 

“I’m gonna come with you,” she says. 

Whiskey notices she’s wearing trackpants and a windbreaker. 

“Mom said it was okay,” she says. 

“Mhmm,” Whiskey says, “You should go back to bed, the sun’s not even up.”

“I want to play in the Olympics,” Piper says. 

“You’ve mentioned that.”

“And that means I have to be the best. I want to be as good as you, so I’m gonna run with you.”

And Whiskey realizes that there’s no talking her out of this, so he just looks at her helplessly. 

“I’m not that good,” Whiskey says. 

“You’re in the NHL.”

“Barely,” he mutters. 

“Come on, let’s go.”

So Whiskey lets himself be pulled out the door by a nine year old. He’s expecting to have to slow down, but she matches his pace and keeps running her mouth a mile a minute. And Whiskey’s surprised to learn, that he really likes it. Just listening to the kid, nodding when appropriate, asking her questions about school and her friends and agreeing to race up the driveway when they get back. 

Whiskey opens the front door and they’re immediately greeted by Avery, she’s holding two glasses of what Whiskey is pretty sure is a banana smoothie. 

“Are these for us?” Whiskey asks. 

Avery nods. 

“Thank you,” Whiskey says, and takes his.

“I made breakfast!” Emily calls from the kitchen. 

It’s nice. That’s all Whiskey really has to say about living with the Roberts family. They’re nice. Piper seems to think he’s the coolest guy in the world and despite not saying a word, Avery seems to like him too. Emily’s a good mom, Bobby’s a good dad. They’re a good family and Whiskey didn’t expect to like living with them as much as he does. Because he feels appreciated every time Piper bangs on his door and demands he come outside and practice, and he feels helpful every time he does the dishes for Emily after dinner. He feels safe. 

Ford tells him on the phone one day that it’s “good for him to have this kind of stability, finally.” And Whiskey hadn’t thought of it like that, but it makes sense. He’s doing good, for the first time in who knows how long. 

Whiskey has a physical therapy appointment and a regular therapy appointment on the day the Nordiques get home so he’s in the arena when most of the guys walk in from the bus. He’s getting his shoulder worked on after talking to an obscenely polite woman about what lead to the spiral in Detroit and how they can prevent that from happening here. He does some light weight training in the gym under the supervision of a trainer. He hears Bobby’s voice coming down the hall and some of the team walks in wearing gym clothes, he recognizes Barnesy and Jonesy and Danny, and standing behind them is Kent. 

“Hey, man!” Bobby calls. 

Whiskey waves from the bench he’s sitting on. 

Kent takes one look at Whiskey and walks out of the room. 

“Fuckin’ weirdo,” Danny says affectionately. 

“He’s been off all day,” Bobby says. 

“You two know each other, don’tcha?” Jonesy asks, “You and Parser?” he sits down next to Whiskey. 

“A little,” Whiskey says “Not well.”

“Hm,” Barnesy says, “I don’t what crawled up his ass and died-”

Jonesy cuts Barnesy off, “Bro is that like, homophomic?”

“What?” Barnesy asks. 

“You know, like, not okay to say about a gay dude?”

“Oh… uh… I dunno,” Barnesy says, “Either way, he’s grumpy.”

Whiskey’s palms are all of a sudden very sweaty. Because if Barnesy and Jonesy are saying what Whiskey thinks they’re saying… then they know about Kent. Whiskey knows Kent would never tell anyone else about him, he’d let Whiskey’s business stay private. But if they know about Kent, then it stands to reason that they could find out about him. And it would be weird to just leave, but it’s also weird to just keep sitting here with his mouth open, so he checks his exercise plan and moves into his next set of reps. 

They seemed chill about it. Nice about it even, like they didn’t care… or they did care but they cared for the right reason, they cared about Kent being comfortable. Whiskey focuses on his reps and his breathing. Just because they’re okay with Kent, doesn’t mean they’d be okay with him, doesn’t mean Bobby would be okay with Whiskey living with him, hanging out with his kids, sleeping under his roof. No, he’ll keep things private. Lowkey. 

There’s a text from someone waiting for him when he’s done in the gym. Jari Niemenen. 

**Nemo:** **dude, we were in town for a school day game, we kicked ass, you’ve gotta come celebrate with us**

 **Whiskey:** **i dunno man, i’d be celebrating my minor league team winning**

 **Nemo:** **awww come on, i’ll buy the first round for old time’s sake.**

Bobby walks up behind Whiskey

“Got any plans tonight?” He asks, “Board game night and the boys want you to hang.”

“Uh,” Whiskey says, and honestly, seeing Jari feels like a pretty good excuse not to have to see Kent, “I’m actually gonna meet up with some old teammates, catch up,” he says. 

“Oh,” Bobby says, “Next time though.”

“Yeah definitely.”

“There’s no way I’m letting you miss the first annual Nordiques Christmas party next weekend.”

“Yeah, for sure,” I’ll be there,” Whiskey says without realizing what he promised. 

Niemenen texts him a place and Whiskey goes straight from the arena after he showers. 

“Ayyyy!” Fisch shouts from across the bar when Whiskey walks in. 

Whiskey swallows hard, he’s already on edge from the incident in the gym, he doesn’t know why his heart starts pounding faster. 

Whiskey sits down in the booth. The fake smile he was so accustomed to giving in Detroit weasels its way onto his face again. 

“So,” Jari says, looking at Whiskey, “We’ve all been dying to know, what are the puck bunnies like in QC?”

Whiskey makes himself laugh. There’s a kind of person they want him to be. There’s a kind of person he’s supposed to be. Whiskey has not gone on a date since he got to Quebec, he hasn’t opened Tinder, he hasn’t hooked up with anyone since the days before surgery. That particular brand of self sabotage faded away with the change in location. He’ll lie. 

“They all speak fuckin’ french, man. Can’t understand what the fuck anyone says.”

“French can be sexy,” Shevs says. 

“Not fuckin’ Quebec frech,” Fisch shakes his head. 

Whiskey laughs. He does not mention how much he always liked listening to Kent’s french. He doesn’t think Kent’s ever going to want to be in the same room as him for long enough to say another word to Whiskey

“Shots!” Jari announces. 

“Dude, it’s barely 5,” Whiskey says. 

“Come on, we’re celebrating.”

Whiskey gives in. 

“So when are you back on the ice?” Fisch asks. 

“January,” Whiskey answers. 

“Woof,” Fisch says. 

“Surgery really fucked you, huh?” Jari says. 

Whiskey shrugs. 

“Your business, I guess,” Jari says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, and he takes a long sip of his beer. 

Kent hates this. He still wakes up, confused that Whiskey’s not beside him. He had to delete his number to keep himself from texting him out of habit. He wants him, but he’s not allowed. There are like eight different categories of “not allowed,” that continuing to pine for Connor Whisk falls under. He walks out of rooms where Whiskey is, he goes quiet whenever someone brings up the new guy on the plane or on the bus or in practice. And he knows they’re going to figure out that there’s something weird about it, but Kent just  _ can’t.  _ He knows that every time he looks at Whiskey, he thinks about what used to be, what they had, what there was, and he wants it again. 

He’s a grown up, a professional, and he has absolutely no idea how to handle this. 

He gets home and throws his bag down at the front door. Kit meows at him until he scratches her between the ears. And then he flops onto his couch. He’s not above cyber-stalking. Whiskey doesn’t use social media all that much, but he has teammates that do, and his teammates have girlfriends that do. He spent Whiskey’s entire time in Detroit checking those pages religiously, looking at every tagged photo on his Instagram account. There were photos of him actually playing hockey, obviously, but there were also a lot of bar shots. Whiskey in a group photo with some teammates, guys from detroit. Whiskey with his arm around a blonde. There was one photo that Kent saw, a group shot of some girls, with Whiskey in the background, his arm around the waist of a different girl, her mouth on his neck. 

Kent didn’t have it in him to be jealous, not in the normal way, not in the angry way. Because Whiskey looked dead in just about every picture. He had bags under his eyes and Kent could see it in his face where he lost weight and his eyes were always glassed over. When Jack told him that he was going in for surgery, Kent cried tears of relief. When he heard that he was coming to Quebec, he cried more. Frustration, because he knew that this was the best place for him, that he’d be taken care of and developed properly, but Kent knew he couldn’t be a part of that, couldn’t be any help.

The picture of Whiskey from tonight in a bar downtown with his old teammates is all the proof that Kent needs to tell himself that not only is he not a help, but he’s actively a hindrance. Kent has his mind made up, they have to be teammates, but Kent won’t try for anything more than that. They’re colleagues, coworkers, guys who go to work in the same place, and guys who under no circumstances should even be friends again. Kent tells himself it’s for Whiskey’s sake, but really, it’s just as much for his own. 

He lets himself stew for about 20 minutes, because he has to go to board game night, and there’s no room for being grumpy at board game night. 

It’s Clue tonight, which is fine by Kent. He’s sneaky and smart and he can usually figure out all the clues before anyone else does. 

“Parser always wins the smart guy games,” Mouse complains. 

“If you think fuckin’ Clue is a smart guy game then you might want to re-evaluate.,” Kent says after winning the second round. He throws a pretzel bite at his mouth and misses. Mouse laughs at him. 

‘Did you ask Whisk if he wanted to come?” Danny asks Bobby. 

Bobby nods, “He’s out with some friends.”

Kent bites his tongue, makes sure his face is appropriately neutral. 

“You two know each other, right?” Danny asks. 

Kent just shrugs, “Not well. He went to Samwell.”

“Right, right, Zimmermann,” Danny says. 

“Yeah,” Kent says. He shuffles the cards for the game, “Anyone up for a third round?”

“Nah, fuck that,” Mouse says, “If I wanted to suffer I’d get Becks to bag skate us again.”

“You’re making Whisk come to mine for Christmas, right?” Danny asks. 

“Absolutely,” Bobby answers, “Team bonding, whether he wants to or not.”

Everyone laughs. 

“He’s a good kid though,” Bobby says, “The girls love him. He’s been out in the driveway taking shots on Piper. I’m worried they’re gonna get him a better father’s day gift than me at this rate.”

Kent swallows hard. He leaves the room when Whiskey walks in, he always makes sure they’re on opposite sides of the ice during practice. He deleted his number, changed his phone’s homescreen. He wears a band-aid over the tattoo, the tiny little  _ I love you  _ on his thigh, written in Whiskey’s handwriting. He’s done everything he can to keep his heart safe and it’s still not working. Because the thought of Whiskey laughing in the driveway with Bobby’s kids makes him fell like he’s exploding, the thought of Whiskey making dinner and falling asleep after practice in that cute semi-stubborn way where he sits up in an armchair and insists he’s just “resting his eyes,” it’s all so much for Kent. Because Whiskey is good and Whiskey deserves good things and it’s so hard to forget a person who loved you and it’s hard to forget a person who hurt you and it’s so much harder to forget a person who’s done both so well. It’s ironic, that Whiskey was the one who told Kent not to apologize for the sake of apologizing, who told him that his feelings mattered. Ironic that it’s that lesson that keeps him from reaching for Whiskey’s hand or asking Bobby if he’s mentioned Kent at all. 

“Let’s play a hand of blackjack,” Danny suggests. 

“Parse would clean us all out,” Jonesy says. 

“I’ll sit out,” Kent volunteers, “It’s not big deal.”

“If you’re sure.” Bobby says. 

Kent just leans back in his chair. He’s so tired of feeling sorry for himself and he’s so tired of feeling sorry for Whiskey, but he doesn’t know how else he’s supposed to feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will they ever talk again or will they just keep yearning like morons? or will they ruin Danny's Christmas party entirely by being even bigger morons than they already are?


	27. Looking at the ground because I don't want you to leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> party!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from robert frost by mal blum

Whiskey’s laptop doesn’t get much use after college, but he busts it out every Thursday to have a video call with Tango and Ford. Ford had set it up, made them agree to talk once a week after Whiskey’s surgery. Whiskey thinks that maybe this is what they should have been doing all along, because Whiskey feels so much less alone. 

They had whooped in joy for him when he showed them his arm and told them how well it was healing. Whiskey and Tango spent an hour last week offering to kill her shitty professor before launching into a 20 minute rant about how smart and amazing she is and how if some shitty academics at Samwell can’t see that then they don’t know anything.Whiskey loves hearing about how excited Tango is to start his student teaching placement in January, he loves listening to Ford get really excited about her essay proposals and then immediately complaining about how she has to write them. He realizes, with alarming quickness, that he was so alone in Detroit. 

“So you’re not going home for Christmas?” Ford asks during this particular video call. 

Whiskey shakes his head, “Not to Arizona, no, it’s too far and I have too much going on here. There’s a game on the 27th, and I might get to play on the first, so,” he shrugs, “It’s not like it’s a big deal.”

“That makes sense,” Ford says, she’s currently sitting in her childhood bedroom in California, Whiskey can’t quite place where Tango is. 

“So you get to play the winter classic?”

“If everything goes according to plan,” Whiskey says, “And it’s looking good so far.” 

Whiskey’s trying very hard not to think about what’s going to happen if he plays. If he doesn’t score, if he’s bad. Because that’s just going to confirm his worst fear, that he played his best hockey when he was falling apart, and by putting himself back together, he’s going to lose that. 

He shakes his head. 

“That’s great!” Tango says. 

There’s a soft knock on his doorframe. He sees Piper standing there with a tupperware container. 

“Me and Avery made lunch,” she whispers, “I’ll just leave it here.”

“You don’t have to whisper, Pipes,” he says, “I’m just talking to my friends.”

“Oh, okay, whenever Daddy’s on the computer it’s something important.”

“You wanna come say hi?” Whiskey asks. 

Piper breaks into a grin. She sets the plate, which Whiskey now realizes is holding a grilled cheese, on his desk. She cautiously sticks her head into the frame and waves. 

“Hi!” Tango says. 

“Hello!” Ford says at the same time. 

“Guys, this is Piper, she’s a goalie. 

“That’s s’wawesome!” Tango says.

“Super cool,” Ford acknowledges. 

“Did you guys play hockey at Samwell?” she asks. 

Tango nods, Ford shakes her head. 

“Tango was my liney, Ford was our team manager.”

Piper nods. 

“I’m gonna go eat lunch now,” Piper says. 

“Okay,” Whiskey says, “Thank you for the sandwich.”

“Can we still go skating after?”

“Sure, as long as your mom says it’s okay.”

“Okay!” Piper says. 

Ford waits until the door closes behind her to say, “Well she’s adorable.”

Whiskey shrugs, “She’s a good kid. Hell of a goalie too.”

“She’s Bobby’s daughter?” Tango asks. 

“Piper, yeah, the other one is Avery.”

“Connor Whisk,” Ford says, “Have you been secretly good with kids this whole time?”

Tango laughs, “Yeah dude you’ve been holding out on us.”

“They’re just good kids,” Whiskey says, “I’m not gonna like, be a dick, it’s their house.”

Tango and Ford both laugh at him, but he thinks he makes perfect sense. 

“So,” Tango says, “How’s the… situation.”

“The what?”

“You know,” Tango says. 

“Kent,” Ford says, “How’s that.”

Whiskey sighs, “Weird,” he says, “I’m over it. Kind of. We haven’t talked.”

“How?” Tango asks, “You work in the same place.”

“He avoids me like the fucking plague,” Whiskey says. 

Ford frowns. 

“It’s for the best,” Whiskey says, “And I deserve it.”

Ford sighs. 

“Don’t tell me I don’t,” Whiskey says, “I told you how it went down.”

“Oh no, you definitely deserve it,” Ford says. 

“You know how to be a dick, bro,” Tango adds.

“Wow, thanks,” Whiskey says. 

“Are you saying I’m wrong?”

“No.”

“You know how to be a dick,” Ford says, “But you also know how to be a good person, you just act like you don’t. Especially with what you were going through in Michigan… Is talking to him really off the table?”

“He’s not getting back together with me,” Whiskey says, trying to shut it down. 

“Dude,” Tango says. 

“Dude,” Whiskey mocks, “I was bad for him. He’s just… on a whole other level than I am for everything. He shouldn’t have to worry about me. Now can we drop it?”

“Fine,” Ford relents. 

They spend the rest of the video call talking about normal boring stuff and Whiskey is particularly relieved that Kent doesn’t come up again. 

He walks up the stairs holding his skates and gloves only to find Piper and Avery sitting on the couch wearing matching black blouses and red plaid skirts. 

“I thought you wanted to go skating?” Whiskey asks. 

“I do,” Piper says, “At the Christmas party,” and she smirks and a way that tells Whiskey she knows exactly what she’s doing. 

Because Whiskey had fully been intending on flaking out of the team Christmas party, even though it sounded like a good time. A family skate with everybody’s kids on an outdoor rink that the team reserved for the night and then games and drinks at Danny’s place. Whiskey would have gone, if he wasn’t certain that Kent would be there. This is Kent’s team, Whiskey just feels like a visitor. He has no right to show up and make Kent’s life harder than he makes it for himself. 

But he can’t tell Piper that, and Piper’s looking at him with a look of triumph on her face. 

“You are coming, right?” she says in a way that is distinctly, adorably manipulative. 

And Whiskey has no answer and says, “Yeah. I just uh, I forgot. I’ll go get changed.”

“Okay!” Piper beams. 

Whiskey finds a pair of khakis and the sweater that Ford made him last Christmas, it’s a cream colour that Whiskey thinks looks good on him. 

“Ah, she convinced you to come,” Bobby beams, leaning against Whiskey’s door frame. 

“She’s persuasive.”

“Gets it from her mom,” Bobby says, “PR’s showin’ up, just so you know,” Bobby says. 

“Cool,” Whiskey says, he doesn’t plan on doing anything not entirely wholesome and family friendly. 

It’s dark when they get to the rink, but there are lights over the ice. A couple guys have already shown up, including Kent. Whiskey sees him immediately, it’s so fucking hard not to. It’s so hard to see anything but Kent. 

Whiskey tunes out the PR person while she mics up Whiskey and Bobby. 

“Are you okay with the girls bein on camera?” she asks. 

Bobby smiles and nods, “The little one probably won’t say much.”

“Are you sure you want me mic’d up?” Whiskey asks, “I haven’t even played a game yet,” he says. 

His projected first game is still two weeks away. 

“Bobby told us the kids like you, most of the guys are mic’d up, but don’t worry, we’ll clear all the footage with you first.”

“Cool,” Whiskey says. 

Once the mic pack is secured, he laces up his skates. Piper’s not wearing her goalie skates, Emily had managed to talk her out of the prospect of facing an entire NHL team’s worth of shots tonight. Piper only narrowly agreed. Kent doesn’t even look at him, and Whiskey’s fine with that, makes the whole thing easier. 

Kent sees him, will always see him, can’t stop seeing him. But he doesn’t look. 

He hears Piper’s familiar laugh, he’s seen her around the rink, at family skates. He thinks she’s the coolest kind of kid. He can’t explain the situation to a nine year old though, so he won’t say hello unless she does first. He’s plenty occupied screwing around with Barnesy and Jonesy, playing tag with Coach St. Marie’s 11 and 13 year old sons and smiling for the cameras. He sees Bobby pulling Avery around on a little sled and she’s laughing and giggling. Danny brought his dog onto the ice, his wife is standing near the side of the rink sipping hot chocolate and laughing about something. It feels like the holidays and the atmosphere is nice and if he could see anything other than Connor Whisk, it would be perfect. 

But of course, Connor Whisk is the most interesting thing on the ice. Kent sees him out of the corner of his eye skating around with Piper and Kent wants to know everything about the shy smile on his face. He wants more than anything, just to ask how he’s doing. He wants one more kiss. 

“Leave the blocker at home, Pipes?” Barnesy chirps the kid. 

“Wouldn’t want to embarrass you again!” Piper shouts back from across the rink. 

“Yeah?” Barnesy shouts, “You wanna race!”

“You’re on!” Piper hollers. 

Barnesy is standing next to Kent and Piper is standing next to Whiskey and what that means is that Kent and Whiskey make eye contact for about 3 seconds. Whiskey’s mouth is open, slightly parted, and Kent stands stiff, looks away as soon as he realizes what he’s doing. He turns and gets off the ice. 

Whiskey thinks he deserves this, because secretly-not-so-secretly-anymore, he thinks he never deserved Kent in the first place. He’s too small, too tepid, too boring. Going out with Jari and the other Griffs the other night only proved to him how much of a coward he is about all of this. He can never be out like Kent is to the Nords, he can never be as effortlessly charming and funny. He’ll never be as good at hockey. He understands why Kent looks away. 

This is Kent’s team. It was his team first. And Whiskey just showed up here one day, and he’ll probably leave here before Kent does. And Whiskey reminds himself of that. Because Kent doesn’t deserve to have to see him here and feel uncomfortable, because Kent deserves to finally be in a place that feels safe, and Whiskey hates that he had to wreck that for him. 

Becks and Coach St. Marie don’t come to the party at Danny’s house because, “you deserve a place to bitch about us without us hearing,” and the kids go home to their babysitters. Which is a relief to Whiskey, because seeing Kent playing with kids makes Whiskey miss him in an entirely new way. 

Danny’s girlfriend, Dinah is the kind of person who puts up the Christmas tree right after American Thanksgiving and bakes for the three days preceding the holiday party and insists that you try her spiked eggnog. It’s nice, Whiskey has to admit. There’s dinner served buffet style and Whiskey tells her it’s delicious but she just laughs and tells him she has a really good caterer. 

“Okay, let’s play charades!” Dinah claps and stands up, she picks up a bowl with sheets of paper in it and splits the room down the middle. Whiskey notices immediately that he’s standing on the same side of the room as Kent and he feels himself starting to tense up. 

It’s fun, Whiskey ca admit that. He’s had a few drinks and he feels like he’s among friends and it’s funny when Barnesy gets up and pretends to be a snake only for Jonesy to shout, “wiggly bitch!” twice and then be reminded that they’re on separate teams. 

Whiskey tries to pass on his turn to act something out but Barnesy slaps him on the back of the shoulder and forces him out of his chair. Whiskey reluctantly dips his hand into the bowl and unfolds a slip of paper. 

_ Homework,  _ it says. 

He scrunches up his nose, holds up one finger. 

“One word!” Barnesy shouts, way too loud, “guys it’s one word,” he whispers to their team. 

In hindsight he should have pretended to open a book or something, but instead he opts to mime typing something out on his computer with his nose kind of scrunched up. 

“Piano!”

“Keyboard!”

“Writing”

“Typing!”

Whiskey kind of just freezes, he just keeps miming the same action even though it’s not working, anxious and embarrassed to try something else. 

“Homework,” it’s Kent’s voice.

Whiskey looks up at him and Kent is already looking down into his drink, eyes cast away from Whiskey. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says softly. And then he sits down, and Bobby whoops because their team got points but Whiskey just feels worse. 

He’s in the kitchen later, there’s karaoke happening in the living room and he’s just refilling his drink and looking for a glass of water. He finds one and downs it in one go. He mixes a weak cocktail for himself and leans against the counter. He thinks about how easily Kent guessed his charade, he wonders if he’d realized instantly, the familiar expression on Whiskey’s face that came along with studying, if he’d been hoping someone else would say it so he wouldn’t have to. It doesn’t matter, Whiskey’s never going to get to know. Kent’s never going to tell him. 

Kent walks into the kitchen, like he knew what Whiskey was thinking. He thinks maybe he should look down, look away, not make this weirder than it has to be. He’s a few drinks in though, and Kent looks so beautiful. He’s wearing an ugly Christmas sweater but he’s rolled up the sleeves the way he always does with sweaters and long sleeve shirts and his tattoos are poking out and his arms still look so strong. His hair is messed up from skating and probably running his hands through it all night. He thinks he’d kill to be able to put his hand on any part of Kent for just a few more seconds, to trace a tattoo, kiss a freckle. Kent doesn’t leave the kitchen, but he doesn’t look at Whiskey either. It’s like he’s letting Whiskey look at him while he mixes his own drink. Just as soon as he walked into the kitchen, he walks out. Whiskey hears him join in the laughter in the living room and he wants so badly to be a part of it, knows he could if he wanted to, but this is Kent’s team. What gives him the right?

He just wants to grab Kent by the wrist, pull him into the nearest corner, put both hands on his face and kiss him again. To hold and be held. Those are drunk Whiskey thoughts, he’ll wait for them to go away, he’ll be fine in the morning. He adds another shot of vodka to his drink and takes a swig straight out of the bottle. He won’t sober up any time soon, he might as well ease the awkward. He stumbles when he walks back into the living room, nobody notices, they’re all distracted by a Barnesy/Jonesy duet of baby it’s cold outside. 

They play cards and when Whiskey sits down at the card table, Kent gets up and leaves. When they get partnered in another one of Dinah’s party games, Kent outright says, “No,” and makes Barnesy switch partners. Whiskey sits on the same couch as him and even though there are three guys between them, Kent still gets up. 

Whiskey doesn’t have it in himself to be mad at Kent, doesn’t have it in himself to blame him at all. Someone’s talking about Becks, someone mentions the Olympics and Whiskey says, 

“I didn’t even know that, cool though!”

And he hears Kent scoff.

So Whiskey gets drunk. Like really drunk, like drunk enough to stand up and volunteer to sing jingle bells with Dinah and drunk enough that the room spins and drunk enough that he doesn’t think about kissing Kent in the way that hurts anymore, which is honestly ideal. He gets drunk enough that he stumbles and laughs and he gets drunk enough that he ends up with his head in the toilet tasting a combination of whatever he had for dinner, spiked eggnog, and vodka. His head is pounding. It’s Mouse that brings him a bottle of water. 

Whiskey hasn’t talked to Mouse much since he got here, but he seems like a nice kid, nice enough to make sure he hasn’t choked on his own vomit yet. 

“Sorry I ruined the vibe,” Whiskey says. 

“Ah, the vibe is fine,” Mouse says, “I threw up last game night. Though that had more to do with the shrimp that Danny brought.”

Whiskey laughs bitterly, distantly he hears someone say, 

“Yo, where’d Parse go, he left his phone?” 

He has to puke again, so he doesn’t bother investigating, he forgets about it quickly enough anyway. 

It’s snowing, which is just fucking great considering Kent didn’t grab his jacket before he walked out. It’s not just that he hates seeing Whiskey drunk (which he does) it’s that he hates seeing Whiskey. It sounds harsh, he knows, but it’s the truth. It’s just a reminder of what he doesn’t have anymore and what he can’t hope for again. He just wanders out into the snow, because the house feels suffocating, because he tried, because he needs air, because he wants to scream. It’s bright out, because the snow is reflecting the street lights and the Christmas lights from the neighbouring houses. He’s pacing up and down the sidewalk when he feels a hand grab his shoulder. 

“What’s up?” Bobby asks. 

“Walking,” Kent says. 

“With you?”

“I’m walking.”

“Okay, I guess I’ll be blunt then. What the fuck is your beef with Whisk?”

“There’s no beef,” Kent mumbles. 

“I’m not blind, Parse. Did he do something to you? Is he an asshole secretly? Because if he’s secretly an asshole I want to know that, he hangs out with my daughters and I don’t want my daughters hanging out with an asshole?”

“There’s nothing,” Kent repeats. 

“You haven’t talked to him once,” Bobby says, “He’s a good fucking guy, Parse.”

“I know that,” Kent says. 

“And he’s a damn good player.”

“I know that.”

“Then what’s your deal? Did he do something to you”

“Nothing, I told you.”

“There’s not reason for the way you’re acting then,” Bobby says. 

“Are you captaining me before they even name you captain?” Kent cracks a joke.

He’s scrambling on his feet, because he doesn’t want to out hiskey to the guy he lives with, not not, not like this. So he has to come up with something else. He gets there eventually. 

“We know each other, but he didn’t do anything  _ to  _ me,” Kent says, which is technically not a lie unless you consider blowjobs doing something to Kent, and he’s pretty sure that’s not the way Bobby means. 

Bobby nods. 

“He went to Samwell and that’s where Jack met and that’s how we knew each other,” still not totally a lie, “He just… reminds me of Jack, and well, me and Jack didn’t end well,” also still not totally a lie, just not the truth either. 

“Hm,” Bobby says. 

“We’re just not friends,” Kent says, “I guess that I made myself seem colder than I am.” he says, “I’ll work on it,” that part is a lie. 

Kent wishes he could tell Bobby, that he could tell Mouse or Danny or Barnesy or Jonesy, or Becks or anyone but Jack. But he won’t, because he can’t do that to Whiskey. Because like it or not, Kent’s business is Whiskey’s business and Kent  _ knows  _ how much Whiskey hates people knowing very much about him, especially in that way. But he wants to scream at someone,  _ i don’t hate him, i’m in love with him, that’s the fucking problem.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the party was not so much ruined as it was interrupted by idiocy... they definitely ~could~ have talked here, but the tension was not quite tense enough yet, and so, they continue suffering and it's nobody's fault but their own hehehehehe


	28. Tethered to a table with that happy holiday crowd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from christmas song by phoebe bridgers, this chapter is lightly festive

Kent corners Whiskey in the locker room after practice. It’s empty, Whiskey’s not sure where everyone else went. Kent puts his hand on Whiskey’s hip, thumb stroking his thigh. He’s in Whiskey’s space and Whiskey can feel the familiar rise and fall of Kent’s breathing. He smells like cedar shampoo and his hands are gentle. His face is an inch away from Whiskey’s, his lips close enough to touch. 

“Would you please just kiss me already,” Whiskey whispers. 

Kent nods and then he’s closing the gap between him and it’s like he’s moving in slow motion and Whiskey’s heart wrenches and then he feels like he’s falling. Because he’s waking up. He groans and rolls over in bed. Of course he wants to kiss Kent, he knows that. It can’t happen though, apparently his brain knows that so well that it won’t let him finish the dream. 

Kent used to surprise him, he’d just show up at Samwell, mostly unannounced. One time he climbed a tree and snuck through Whiskey’s window, another time, he showed up at a game they had at Northeastern. Whiskey would do the same. They were the kings of long distance, always driving or flying to see each other. And Whiskey handled it, because it was always worth it to feel the soft press of Kent’s lips against his. He has to be a grown up about this now, he’s convinced himself. This is Kent’s team and Kent’s doing well here, better than Whiskey ever saw him with the Aces, and Whiskey can’t ruin that for him just because he wants what they had back. Whiskey doesn’t know if he’d be able to find it. 

“Whisk?” Whiskey jumps, shakes his head. 

“Fuck,” he says, “Sorry, I zoned out.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Becks says. Whiskey’s sitting across from her in her office after physical therapy, “What’s up?” She asks. 

“Nothing,” Whiskey says, “Tired.”

She cocks an eyebrow at him, “Really?”

He shrugs. 

“If there’s anything you need to talk about there are people.”

“Just not you?” Whiskey smirks. 

Becks smirks right back at him, “The sports psychologists get paid for that, not me.”

Whiskey leans forward, they’ve just finished going over his schedule for the next week. He’s still on track to play on New Year’s Day, according to Becks at least. 

“Anyway, I was saying, Mouse and Snowy are still skating if you wanted to get on the ice today, optional, obviously,” she says. 

“Uh, yeah, actually,” Whiskey says, because maybe that might clear his head. 

He gets on the ice and he still can’t make himself come back into his own head. He can’t figure out what the fuck is wrong with himself. There’s the anxiety about his first game, maybe that’s it, but it’s always been there and he doesn’t get like this about hockey. 

“Hey, Whisk!” Mouse says, “It’s good to see you.”

Whiskey nods in his general direction. 

“I usually just take shots on Snowy after practice,” Mouse says. 

“Cool,” Whiskey says. And he realizes that he’s not doing much to disprove his reputation as an aloof asshole, but he still feels so weird. Like it’s not his hands holding his stick. He feels kind of the way he does at the end of a long workout, when his brain leaves his body and sends him to autopilot. Except there’s no reason for it today as Mouse feeds him passes and he tries to get them past Snowy, and he’s doing a terrible fucking job of it, so much so that Mouse asks him if he wants to pack it up, but Whiskey grits his teeth and he says no. 

Everyone notices, even Piper and Avery, that there’s something off. Something stupid and small that he can’t put his finger on. Maybe he misses his friends, but that doesn’t feel right, they talked yesterday. He’s in good shape, he’s eating right, he’s not on a shitty team anymore. There’s nothing about this that’s not going right. 

It’s in the car with Emily on the way to the mall to go Christmas shopping that Whiskey realizes how many Christmas songs are about getting broken up with, and that stings a little. 

Whiskey holds Emily’s bags for her, but he’s not much use otherwise. She notices something’s up with him, doesn’t really ask about it. Piper’s the only person in his life who’s not being weird about his increasing spaciness. She asks him to come play in the driveway and he goes and he listens to her talk about school and there’s nothing complicated about that. But Bobby asks him about his injury schedule and Mouse wants to get to know him like a friend and he never feels like he understands Barnesy and Jonesy when they talk to him. And Kent is still there. Still as distant as ever. He caught Bobby looking at them the other day, when they were standing on the ice next to each other. It was some kind of weird look, maybe a warning, maybe something else. And Whiskey has no idea what he could possibly be warning him about. Bobby doesn’t know, right? Kent wouldn’t have told him? No. He’d never, Whiskey knows that. Something else he knows is that Bobby probably wouldn’t care if he had, not in any way that Whiskey needs to be afraid of. Still, it’s so incredibly strange, for people to see you one way, and have one single thing about you change that view entirely. 

Whiskey’s helping Emily peel carrots when Bobby walks into the kitchen. Piper and Avery have been told to either “help cook or get lost,” so they’ve opted to get lost. Whiskey wasn’t given an option. 

“Oh, honey!” Emily drops what she’s doing and turns to Bobby, “I forgot to ask you, but I assumed you’d be okay with it,” she starts. 

“As long as it doesn’t involve my credit cards,” Bobby chuckles. 

“No,” Emily smiles, “I invited Kent over for dinner on Christmas Eve. He told me he’s not going home and no one’s coming up here, and you know I hate when people are alone on the holidays.”

Bobby nods, “And he said… yes?”

Whiskey sees Bobby’s eyes glance over at himself. Whiskey looks down. There’s no way Bobby knows? Right? 

“Yep!” Emily grins, “Well I didn’t give him much time to turn me down, but no one tuns down Christmas Eve dinner.”

“That’s great,” Bobby says, “Awesome.”

And he’s still looking at Whiskey. Whiskey swallows hard and makes an effort to look as normal as possible while he chops vegetables. 

“How do you feel about that?” Bobby asks Whiskey. 

“Fine,” Whiskey says, “It’s your house.”

Bobby just nods. “Hm,” he says. 

Whiskey tries. That’s what matters, that’s what everyone’s telling him matters. He gets out of bed and he goes to practice and he goes to physical therapy and he talks to the sports psychologist and he’s good. Not good enough that he feels it though, apparently. 

Emily goes last minute shopping on Christmas Eve, which is fine, Bobby and Whiskey are home. They take Piper and Avery skating in the afternoon and Emily comes home with hot chocolate for lunch. There’s music and the girls are decorating Christmas cookies and Whiskey almost forgets to be terrified about the prospect of Kent showing up in half an hour. 

“Kent!” Piper shouts, getting up from the table where she’s pouring sprinkles onto gingerbread. Kent’s standing in the front entryway and Piper launches herself at him. Whiskey sees him hug her, he doesn’t get up to say hi. He doesn’t think Kent would want him to. 

“You get taller?” Kent asks her. 

“Maybe,” Piper says. 

Kent smiles, “Smells great, Em!” Kent yells towards the kitchen. 

Kent’s always been so easily charming. 

“Come look at the cookies,” Piper says and she grabs Kent by the wrist and pulls him towards the dining room table. 

“I bet they’re gonna taste great” Piper asks. 

Whiskey is paying incredibly close attention to the icing on his gingerbread man so he doesn’t have to make Kent look at him. 

“They look really good,” Kent says, “If hockey doesn’t work out you might just have to be a baker.”

Piper shakes her head, “Hockey’s gonna work out.”

Whiskey smiles to himself. 

“Will you come outside with me?” Piper looks up at Kent, still holding his wrist. 

“Sure,” Kent says. 

Piper looks up at Whiskey and Whiskey knows what’s coming, “You too,” she says. 

“Uh, I’ll just stay here and keep decorating with Avery.”

In that very second, Avery sets down her sprinkles and gets up to start putting on her coat. 

Piper grabs Whiskey’s wrist with her other hand and starts dragging both of them towards the door. Avery’s already standing at the front door, holding it open for them. 

“We’ll be in for dinner, mom!” Piper shouts. 

“You’re not putting on your gear?” Kent asks her. 

“Connor helped me learn how to shoot like a skater, so I don’t only need to be in the net anymore.”

“Oh,” Kent says. 

And Whiskey blushes and looks down. 

Whiskey, despite himself, has fun. It’s hard not to have fun with Piper, she’s a fun kid. And Kent’s there, and Kent’s having fun too and it’s not like they’re hanging out with each other, they’re just both hanging out with Piper. Every now and then, Whiskey looks over and sees Kent doing something like leaning on his stick or running his hands through his hair. 

He’s so fucking beautiful. 

“Hey, Avery,” Whiskey says, mostly as a way to keep himself from looking at Kent. 

She looks up and runs over to him. 

Whiskey throws her on his back and takes the road hockey ball on his stick, Avery lets out a giggle as they run across the driveway. Piper steaks the ball off of his stick and Avery growls, Kent steals the ball from Piper. Avery squirms and Whiskey picks her up off his shoulders and hands her his hockey stick. She runs after Piper, trying to get the ball away from her. Whiskey ends up standing beside Kent, slightly off to the side while the sisters duke it out. He notices Piper whisper something to Avery and he sees Avery nod and giggle and then the next thing he knows, there are two kids running headfirst at him and Kent. they both jump at the same time, screaming and giggling and knocking Kent and Whiskey into the snowbank. 

“I thought there was no checking in girl’s hockey,” Kent groans through a laugh. 

“I play co-ed,” Piper says proudly. 

And that’s enough that Whiskey cracks, and Kent cracks even harder and they’re bot laughing and Avery is sitting on his chest and she has a wide grin on her face. And Whiskey risks it, and he turns his head to the side and looks at Kent, there’s snow in his hair and he looks warm, even out here in the snow. The most striking detail though, is that he’s looking right back at Whiskey. Whiskey’s heart skips a beat as their eyes meet. Kent’s eyes look grey under the street lights, the freckles on his nose have gotten lighter since he’s getting less sun in the winter. He shrugs at Whiskey and then looks away. He throws Piper over his shoulder and Whiskey throws Avery over his and they march them inside for dinner.

Whiskey thinks if that’s what it takes to get Kent to look at him, then maybe he’ll slip Piper a twenty and tell her to knock them on their asses more often. 

Whiskey keeps catching Kent looking at him from across the table and then looking down as soon as he gets caught. Whiskey would be lying if he said he wasn’t doing the same. Whiskey’s taken a while to feel like he isn’t intruding on all the family traditions, that they actually want him here, but he thinks he’s finally gotten there. The girls pick a Christmas movie to watch in the living room and they put on matching Christmas pajamas and they drink hot chocolate the grownups spike their mugs with Bailey’s. Whiskey watches Emily tuck her head into the crook of Bobby’s neck and he remembers all the times he’s done that with Kent and how he wants to do that more times. Kent’s sitting across the room from him and Whiskey can see him staring forward at the TV but the only thing Whiskey is watching is Kent. Kent tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, Kent licks his lips, Kent scratches his wrist. Kent blinks twice and then shakes his head. Whiskey wants to hold his hand again. 

He hasn’t paid attention to the movie since it started, so it’s a surprise when it finishes and Piper jumps up and says. 

“Cookies!” Bobby opens his eyes and Emily stirs 

“For Santa?” Kent stands up and asks. 

“Mhmm!” Piper says proudly. 

The cookies are out and the milk is poured and Emily and Bobby tuck Piper and Avery into bed and come back downstairs. Bobby takes a bite out of one of the gingerbread men on the plate they left out and Emily yawns. 

“Well, we’re gonna head upstairs and get some sleep in before Santa comes,” Emily winks and Whiskey, “Kent, you can see yourself out?” she asks. 

“Yeah, of course,” Kent says, “Just about to head out.”

He fishes his keys out of his pocket while Emily and Bobby head up the stairs. Kent still has not said a single word to Whiskey. It doesn’t matter, because Whiskey still feels warm in some kind of way whenever he stands next to him. 

“I’ll walk you out,” Whiskey says. 

Kent doesn’t say anything, just nods while Whiskey slips his jacket on over his shoulder. It’s a grand total of ten feet from the front door to Kent’s car, but they walk slowly, neither one of them saying anything, both of them wanting to. 

Kent unlocks the car, he looks up at the sky. He sighs, shoves his hands in his pocket, looks at Whiskey, looks down again. 

“Do you wanna go for a drive?” Kent asks, finally, “I like to look at the lights.”

It’s Whiskey’s turn to nod wordlessly. Kent gestures to the passenger door and Whiskey gets in and Kent puts the keys in the ignition and starts fiddling with the radio. It’s a familiar anxious tic that Whiskey recognizes from sitting shotgun with him so often. He settles on a Christmas station playing softly. 

“What are we doing?” Whiskey says. 

“Looking at lights,” Kent answers. 

Whiskey remembers Kent complaining about the atmosphere in Las Vegas. People decorated, but without the snow, it didn’t feel quite so festive. He told Whiskey once about how him and his mom used to get hot chocolate and drive around the rich neighbourhoods to see their decorations. Kent drives slowly and the Christmas carols drone on and Whiskey looks at the houses, but he mostly looks at Kent. Kent’s stiff, he doesn’t look like he’s having a great time, but he keeps going, without saying a word. 

“Those are nice,” Whiskey says as they drive past one house with blinking lights. 

Kent nods, “Yeah,” he says. 

The glow of the Christmas lights shines through the car and it lights up Kent’s face at a weird angle. He looks soft at the edges, like he’s glowing and Whiskey thinks if he touched him he’d be warm. 

He takes a breath, Kent’s still looking out his window. 

“I’m sorry I just showed up,” Whiskey says. 

Kent shakes his head. 

“This is your team,” Whiskey says, “You’re doing good here and the guys like you, I’m sorry I made it a weird place for you to be.”

Kent shakes his head again, “You got waived. It’s not your fault.”

“Still,” Whiskey says. 

“Your team too,” Kent mutters. 

Whiskey shrugs. He feels he can’t last that long here. Detroit proved to him that he can’t last long anywhere. 

“I’m glad you're here,” Kent says quietly. 

“What?” Whiskey says. 

“It’s a good environment,” Kent says, “I still…” he sounds like he wants to stop talking, like he’s realized he’s going to say somethin that’s somehow too much, but Whiskey looks at him expectantly so he has to answer, “I still care about your career.”

“I’m playing in the winter classic,” Whiskey says. 

“Becks mentioned it,” Kent says. 

Whiskey nods, “Shoulder’s uh… shoulder’s better.”

“That’s good,” Kent says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah,” Kent says. 

“Piper likes you,” Whiskey says. 

“She’s a good kid,” Kent says. 

“Kicks my ass at road hockey,” Whiskey laughs halfheartedly. Kent joins in, “It’s been good, getting to hang out with Bobby and Em and the kids.”

“They’re good people,” Kent says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah,” Kent says. 

Kent parks in front of Bobby’s house but he doesn’t move. 

“Can I ask…” Whiskey starts. 

“Yeah,” Kent says. 

“You ignore me, is that… do you hate me?” 

He watches Kent swallow hard and then shake his head. 

“No,” Kent says, “No, it’s just… hard.”

“Hard?” Whiskey asks. 

“Hard.” Kent answers and Whiskey knows he’s not getting anything more out of him. 

“I’m sorry,” Whiskey says. 

Kent just shakes his head, doesn’t answer. 

“This is my stop,” Whiskey says. 

Kent nods, he looks away because apparently they’re back to that now. 

“Goodnight, Kent,” Whiskey says. 

“Goodnight, Connor.”

Whiskey walks across the front lawn and into the front door. He watches Kent drive away through the window and then locks the door behind him. He walks downstairs and falls face first into his pillow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they talked, but did they actually say anything?  
> (i want them to kiss just as much as you do)


	29. A stranger whose laugh I could recognize anywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby is wrong about some things at the winter classic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from new years day by taylor swift

When someone asks Whiskey to imagine a place he feels safe, he imagines a twin sized bed in a 100 year old frat house. He can smell maple coming from somewhere and he can hear footsteps in the room above his. The air is cold but he’s wrapped in blankets and there are two strong arms wrapped around his torso, an expanse of warmth to rest his head against. Someone asks Whiskey to imagine a time when he was happy and he’s sitting by a pool in Las Vegas where somebody else is controlling the music and he can hear laughter and lean back with his feet in the water, where he can see a flash of blond hair and hear a splash, and a smile cracks onto his own face. Ask him to imagine a place where he feels relaxed and he’s lying on the floor with a cat on his chest and a boy playing with his hair. Where he feels excited? He’s in an airport looking for a cowlick and a snapback. Serene? He’s back in a bed tracing tattoos. Comfortable? He’s on a couch painting the nails of a very pretty boy. Confident? And the boy is holding him in his arms after he’s hoisted a trophy and telling Whiskey how proud he is. Ask Whiskey to imagine any number of things, and Kent is there. Inextricably. 

He has his eyes closed and he’s sitting on the floor in the dressing room. Someone thought it was a good idea to bring in some kind of sports psychologist. They started the day with some kind of weird visualization exercise that just made Whiskey uncomfortable. Then she told Whiskey to go to his happy place and he opted to just sit with his eyes closed instead. She tells them to open their eyes and look around the room at each other. 

“Very good,” she says in a soothing voice that makes Whiskey want to jump out a window even though they’re on a ground floor. 

“Now, I want to work on trust,” she says, “As members of a team, trust is paramount.”

Whiskey trusts his teammates on the ice. In two days they’re going to be playing his first professional hockey game as a Nordique together, he has to trust them. It’s QC vs. Providence with Providence hosting the game and Whiskey knows that all his friends are going to be there. He’ll trust them. They play hockey together, that’s enough to build trust. 

This motivational speaker-ass-looking-woman seems to disagree. 

“So I think it’s important that we verbalize our trust in this room,” she says. 

Whiskey feels his palms get sweaty as she picks two teammates at random and instructs them to declare their trust for each other. 

“Mouse, I trust you,” Barnesy says. 

“Barnesy, I trust you too,” Mouse says. 

“Bobby, I trust you,” Jonesy says. 

“Jonesy, I trust you too,” Bobby says

“Whisk,” the woman says, Whiskey tenses up, “Please tell Parson that you trust him.”

Whiskey feels his mouth go dry. Because the truth is, he does, wholeheartedly, with anything. But the idea of Kent having to say it back to him? After everything? It makes Whiskey’s stomach turn. He looks across the room and sees Kent staring at the carpet. He wants to run. To melt, to get himself the fuck out of this weird-ass situation. 

He stands up. The woman looks at him quizzically. 

“Connor?” She asks. 

Whiskey opens his mouth and then shuts it. Whiskey feels eyes on him. 

“I trust you,” Whiskey says, and then he high tails it out of the room. He doesn’t stick around to listen to what happens next. Pushes the door open and just keeps going. He didn’t think about where he was going so he takes a deep breath. His eyes are scanning the hallway. He pushes open the door to the player’s lounge and leans against the wall. He drags his hands down his face and lets out a heavy breath. He doesn’t have any time to think before the door’s flying open and Bobby is staring him down. 

“What’s your problem, Whisk?” He’s demanding. 

Whiskey looks down at his hands and shakes his head. 

“I said, what’s your problem, man?” Bobby says, and he sounds angry. 

Whiskey feels his hands shaking. 

“I thought Christmas Eve was a start, man,” Bobby says. 

“I-” Whiskey says. 

“You hang out with my kids, man,” Bobby says, “You spent Christmas with us, you’re my  _ teammate,  _ what’s your fucking problem.”

Whiskey just feels like sinking, he shakes his head, feels his ears ringing. 

“I can’t figure out what your deal is. I like you man, you’re a good guy. But you haven’t said a fucking word to Parson since you got here, even on Christmas eve. This is a team, how are you gonna be a member of a team acting like that?”

Whiskey feels like he’s swallowing his tongue, because Bobby can’t know. There’s no way Bobby could know. The idea of Bobby knowing about him and Kent is terrifying. 

“And I’m racking my brain trying to figure out what your beef could possibly be with him, because you get along with the rest of the guys here and I’m trying to figure out what he could have done to you and the only thing I can think of,” Bobby says. 

Whiskey digs his fingernails into the flesh of his palms. Every worst case scenario is running through his head. 

“The only fucking thing I can think of that makes him different from the rest of the guys here is that he’s gay,” and Bobby’s gesturing wildly and Whiskey feels like there’s a balloon inflating in his chest and he’s so tense and it’s about to pop. 

“I-” Whiskey stammers, his throat is dry. 

“No,” Bobby says, “Don’t. We don’t do that shit here. This team, my house, my family. We don’t do that shit.”

“Bobby, I’m sorry,” Whiskey says. 

“This is an accepting place, alright, Parse is my friend, he’s your teammate.”

_ Wait what?  _

Bobby’s not talking about what Whiskey thought he was talking about. 

“Wait, Bobby,” Whiskey says. 

“Dude, this can be a learning moment, or whatever, but you can’t treat a guy bad, you have to trust him… you can’t not trust him just because he’s gay.”

“That’s not…” Whiskey says. 

He swallows hard. He looks around, making sure they’re alone. He’s not satisfied and he pulls Bobby towards the little breakfast bar that the team has. 

“Bobby, I don’t… that’s not why… okay.” He inhales hard, “Bob,” he says, “It’s not that.”

“Whisk, I need you to explain this shit to me then.”

“I… can’t,” Whiskey says, “I promise it’s not that.”

Bobby nods, like he doesn’t quite trust it. 

“I’ve got,” he sighs, “I’ve got a lot of shit going on and it’s tough,” he says, “It’s not Parse’s fault.”

“Right,” Bobby says, “I’m uh, it’s good. We’re good.”

“I just can’t,” he gestures back to the room, “I can’t do that, it’s just… not. It’s not you it’s not Kent-er, it’s not Parse”

Bobby looks at Whiskey and then he looks at the door. 

“I have to go, okay, I just have to get my head on right. I… we’ll talk, okay? I just can’t do whatever kind of whack group therapy type of shit they have us doing in there.”

“Okay,” Bobby says, “I’ll say you’re sick.” It’s reluctant but Whiskey appreciates it nonetheless.

“Wait, seriously?” Whiskey asks. 

“Yeah,” Bobby says, “Go do something else, I’ll tell them you were about to shit yourself or something.”

“You can’t come up with a better excuse?”

“Nah,” Bobby says. 

Whiskey rolls his eyes. 

“Go for a run or something, clear your head,” he slaps Whiskey on the back of the shoulder, “You’ve gotta be ready for your first game anyway.”

Whiskey takes a deep breath and nods. 

Kent leaves approximately thirty seconds after Whiskey does. He doesn’t give anyone time to chase after him before he grabs his stuff and walks out of the rink. He picks up his keys and he just fucking leaves. It’s not the most responsible thing he’s ever done, just fucking off without telling anyone, but he’s gotta go. He thinks it would have been better if Whiskey hadn’t said anything. But the three words,  _ I trust you _ , bury themselves deep in Kent’s stupid little brain and they keep repeating over and over again inside of his head. Whiskey’s not supposed to trust him, Whiskey’s not supposed to like him or even acknowledge that he exists. That’s not how this was supposed to go. 

Whiskey looked Kent right in the eye when he said it, and somehow that made it worse. Because then Kent remembered every other time that Whiskey looked into his eyes and said something. The,  _ I Love Yous  _ most of all. 

So Kent can’t have that. Kent can’t want that. What he wants is for Whiskey to play a good game tomorrow night, he wants Whiskey to get better and play good hockey and be supported and happy, and he knows that this is the perfect place for him to do that. And Kent hates it. He drives around the city without any idea where he’s going or what he’s doing.

Whiskey is still half asleep when he feels something hit his face. 

“Mmmm,” he groans. 

“Come on, Whisk, wake up, we’ve got a flight to catch.”

“Fuck,” Whiskey groans. His alarm isn’t supposed to go off for another 20 minutes, but Bobby’s standing in the doorway with a box of granola bars. Whiskey looks around his bed and realizes Bobby’s been pelting him with them. Whiskey remembers staying up late with Bobby and Emily and the girls and watching the New Years Eve ball drop in Times Square. He remembers texting Ford and Tango to wish them a happy new year. And then he remembers going for a jog. He didn’t tell anybody. That’s what he does when there’s something he doesn’t want to think about, he runs until it’s not in his head anymore. The thing he wants to avoid thinking about more than quite possibly anything in the world, new year’s day would have been their anniversary. 

He got back in at 2am, after running until his legs almost gave out and falling right into bed. 

“Dude,” Whiskey says, “Okay, I’m up. Remind me again why we have to leave at the ass crack of dawn.”

Bobby laughs, “First of all, we leave at nine, not four in the morning, and second, they need some sexy winter classic jersey photos.”

“Right,” Whiskey grumbles, “Okay, give me a minute.”

Whiskey thanks his past self for setting out his bag and dry cleaned suit ahead of time. All he has to do is throw on a pair of sweats and a hoodie and pick up his shit. 

Bobby throws a bottled protein shake at him and Whiskey cracks the top and downs it in a few gulps. Bobby’s been distant since yesterday, a little overly cautious around him. Whiskey figures he can just deal with it. Because there’s no way he can explain to Bobby what his deal is without dragging Kent into it too. And he really doesn’t want to drag Kent into it. 

“Daddy, are you leaving?” Whiskey hears Piper’s voice echoing down the stairs. 

“In a minute, sweetheart,” Bobby says. 

Piper’s still in pajamas when she runs into the kitchen. 

“Avery’s still asleep but she said she’ll miss you too.”

Bobby hoists Piper up and hugs her. 

“I’ll miss you too,” Bobby says, “Just two games and then I’m home,” Bobby says. 

“Connor too,” Piper adds. 

Bobby just nods and sets Piper down. 

“Avery wanted me to give you this,” Piper thrusts a piece of construction paper at Whiskey. It’s a drawing of a hockey player, who Whiskey is pretty sure is supposed to be him wearing what he’s pretty sure is a Quebec Nordiques jersey. Whiskey takes it and holds it in his hands. 

“Tell her I said thank you,” Whiskey says. 

“And this is from me,” Piper says and she hands him a roll of sky blue hockey tape, “I think blue is lucky, and since it’s your first game back, I think you should have the luck.”

Whiskey doesn’t take it at first. 

“Don’t you want the luck for your games?” he asks. 

She shakes her head, “I have like five more rolls.”

So Whiskey laughs and he takes it, and he crouches down to hug Piper. 

“Thanks, kiddo,” he says and Piper beams. 

Bobby clears his throat. 

“We should head out,” he says, voice strained. 

That’s what Whiskey hates most. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to explain what’s going on to Bobby, how to tell him that he’s not an asshole, not about this thing anyway. Because the idea that Bobby wouldn’t want Whiskey around his kids, because he’s that kind of asshole… that makes Whiskey feel like none of this was worth it in the slightest. 

Bobby’s not a dick or anything, but there’s an iciness between them now that can’t come from any other place than Whiskey’s new perceived homophobic asshole status. He supposes he could just blurt it out, “hey I’m bi,” but that’s more terrifying than the prospect of this awkward silence. 

Whiskey has to meet Becks before they get on the bus and then go to the airport. One last meeting about his injury. She has a suitcase leaning up against the door of her office when he shows up. 

“Morning,” she says. 

“Hey,” Whiskey answers. 

“Big day,” she says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, a sharp inhale. 

“Well, I’ll cut to it. You’re in the lineup,” she says, “Third line centre as long as nothing drastic happens in the next 12 hours.”

“I don’t plan on breaking an arm,” Whiskey says. 

Becks laughs, “Well then we’re set,” she smiles and nods, “good.” 

“Yeah,” Whiskey agrees, “I- thank you. My friends are going to be at this game and it… it means a lot to be back in the lineup for this game.”

Becks shrugs, scratches behind her neck, “You put in the work. This was always the plan. Don’t thank me.”

“Well, I’m gonna anyway.”

She rolls her eyes, “Can you grab those,” she points at a stack of papers and a three ring binder, she’s picking up her suitcase and her own equipment bag. 

“Sure,” Whiskey says. 

Whiskey sees Bobby narrowing his eyes at him as he leaves the office. 

Mouse and Barnesy are sitting in the player’s lounge wolfing down breakfast burritos. Whiskey helps himself to a couple hard boiled eggs and some bacon. 

“Bus leaves in 20,” an equipment manager pokes his head into the lounge. Everyone nods. 

Barnesy and Jonesy are up immediately, which makes Danny snort. 

“What’s with that?” Whiskey asks Danny. 

“They missed the bus in Anaheim and got stuck at the airport for an hour. Becks told them if it happened again she’d skin them alive.”

Whiskey laughs along with Danny. Kent walks in wearing sunglasses, holding a coffee. He walks towards the breakfast bar and picks up a burrito. He has a scowl on his face and his hair covered by a snapback.

“Who pissed in your cornflakes?” Danny chirps. 

Kent just flips him off and walks out of the room

Danny sits with Whiskey on the bus and then later on the flight, Bobby’s still avoiding him in a weird sort of way. He just puts his headphones in and tries not to sink entirely into panic. He has plans to meet Ford and Tango before the game. He knows he has to pose for some photos with the rest of the team in the winter classic jersey. He knows he needs to get lunch. He knows he needs to warm up. It’s a game day. He has a plan for those. If he follows the plan, he’ll be fine. He sleeps on the plane to make up for his ill advised midnight workout. 

In his dreams Kent is touching him. Not even in a sexy way, just brushing his hand against the back of Whiskey’s neck. Tracing Whiskey's jaw with his thumb. Whiskey makes a concerted effort not to look at Kent when he wakes up. 

Becks makes sure everybody gets on the bus to the hotel, makes sure everyone gets their room keys.

Whiskey finds out he’s sharing a room with Danny and that Bobby must have switched rooms at the last minute. Whiskey tries not to take it personally even though Bobby very much meant it personally. Danny claims the bed furthest from the door and sets his stuff down. 

“I’m gonna grab lunch with Bobby and the boys, wanna tag along?” Danny asks. 

Whiskey shakes his head, “I’m meeting up with some friends,” he says. 

“You sure?” Danny asks. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “From college. We went to school around here.”

“Cool,” Danny says, and he picks up his wallet and his room key and heads out. 

Whiskey meets Ford and Tango at a restaurant in downtown Providence. It’s not quite in Tango or Ford’s price range, but Whiskey has NHL money. 

Ford hugs Whiskey hard and then steps aside so Tango can mob him. 

Tango and Ford sit on one side of the booth while Whiskey sits on the other. Whiskey can’t help but notice that Tango is leaning into Ford anytime she says something. Whiskey’s glad to talk about something other than hockey. Tango and Ford aren’t necessarily weird with each other but there’s something going on and Whiskey can’t quite put his finger on it. 

“I’m excited to see Jack,” Tango says. 

“I’m less excited,” whiskey laughs. 

“Are we all hanging out after?” Ford asks. 

“If I don’t fall apart on the ice,” Whiskey says. 

“Good,” Ford smiles. 

They don’t bring up Kent, which makes Whiskey exhale. 

He reaches for the bill before Ford or Tango even get a chance to look at it. 

“I’ll see you guys tonight, I have to go do some PR stuff.”

“Cool,” Tango says, and then he fistbumps Whiskey. 

The SMH groupchat is going crazy in his pocket. He looks at the list of people who’ve gotten tickets and it makes his brain go a little bit fuzzy. First there’s Shitty, Lardo, Bitty, Ransom, and Holster, and they’re obviously coming for Jack. Whiskey doesn’t know any of them that well, then there’s Nursey, Dex, and Chowder, and they’ve gotta be coming for Jack too, sure, Whiskey played with them all, but they were always Jack’s friends not his. But then there’s Hops, and Louis and Bully and they never played with Jack, and then there’s the guys who were freshmen when Whiskey was a senior and then there’s the text Nursey sends, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Murray and Hall have tickets too. Gotta support SMH alums!!”

And that’s plural. Whiskey takes a deep breath and he tries to think about support rather than pressure like his therapist told him to do. The rink they’re skating on is outside, which is the big draw of the winter classic, the Falcs converted Brown University’s football field into a massive outdoor rink. It’s beautiful, but Whiskey can’t help but remember the assholes that used to play hockey on this campus. 

They don’t call Whiskey for any of the promo pictures. They use Bobby and Kent and Snowy for the pictures because their names have the biggest draw. The rest of the team just hangs out around the rink. The Nordiques jerseys are nice, they’re wearing their thirds, which are a deep maroon colour instead of their usual blue. Whiskey still hasn’t put one on. He’s nervous. 

There’s a dressing room that Providence set up for both teams, it’s the one that the football teams usually use, they’re nice. Whiskey walks down the hallway towards the Nords room. He’s looking down at his feet. 

He hears someone clear their throat and he looks up. 

“Jack,” he says. 

“It’s good to see you,” Jack says. 

“Yeah, you too,” Whiskey says. 

Jack smiles, “It’s just a game, but outside.”

Jack saw the nerves immediately, Whiskey wonders if it’s because he’s felt them too. 

Whiskey nods. 

“I’ll see you after the game,” Jack says. 

“For sure,” Whiskey smiles, tight lipped and tense. 

His jersey is hanging in his stall. They gave him his number. Connor Whisk #10. If he squints, the maroon of his jersey looks like Samwell red. And that feels like it should mean something, especially here. Barnesy and Jonesy are in the room, Snowy too. 

“You see Jack?” Snowy asks, tearing Whiskey away from staring at his own jersey. 

“He’s in the hallway,” Whiskey says. 

“Perfect,” Snowy jumps up, “Bitty owes me jam.”

And then Snowy’s out of the room and Whiskey’s staring the jersey down again. 

It’s dumb. There’s no reason to get so anxious about a piece of polyester. He strips down to his underarmour and slides his pads on overtop. He closes his eyes when he pulls the jersey over his head and lets it settle over his shoulder pads. 

This is it. This is real. He hears the warmup music coming from the rink and inhales. He can imagine the fans filing into the football stadium. Becks and St.Marie break down the pre-game strategy. Whiskey has his eyes closed most of the time, remembering to breathe, trying not to think too hard about what he’s about to do. He’s been on the ice for the past month. He’s been skating, he’s been scrimaging, they brought him back for full contact practices just before Christmas. He knows he can do this. 

He follows his team out onto the ice for warmup. It’s colder, because they’re outside and it’s Rhode Island and it’s winter. His skates glide against the ice just as easily as ever and his hands still hold his stick like it’s an extension of his arms. He sees the fans in the stands, further away from the glass than they would be in a normal game, but it still takes him less than thirty seconds to find the crowd of SMH waving at him and Jack and trying to get their attention. 

The Falcs social media person waves Whiskey and Jack over to the bench. 

“Can we get a photo of you two together?” she asks. 

Jack looks at Whiskey and Whiskey nods. 

“Sure,” Jack says. 

“Alumni relations” Whiskey laughs. 

Jack puts his hand on Whiskey’s shoulder and joins him in laughing. 

“Samwell hall of fame,” Jack smirks. 

“You’ve got the place of honour on that one,” Whiskey says, “Your jersey’s front and centre.”

Jack snorts, “If you win tonight I’ll tell them to rearrange the jerseys so yours is in the middle of the wall.”

“Seriously?” Whiskey asks. 

“Yeah, it’s a bet.”

“You’re on,” Whiskey says. 

It’s in the moment that he’s skating away from Jack, that he realizes he feels really good. The energy that he’d been lacking for months is back and it’s rushing through his body. His head is clear and he breathes in the cold air and he feels like he’s in a place he’s supposed to be. He waves to the SMH gang before the Nords get off the ice after warmup. Whiskey’s bouncing around the locker room, rocking back and forth on his skates, jumping in front of his stall. 

Whiskey’s on the bench when the puck drops. He watches Mouse take the faceoff with Kent on his wing. The Nords cheer when Mouse wins the faceoff and drops the puck back to Kent. 

“You ready, kid?” Danny asks before their first shift, Danny’s on his wing. Kent comes over the bench and Whiskey jumps onto the ice. The Falcs have the puck behind their net and Whiskey zeroes in on the puck. His other eye watches the other team’s centre move up the boards. Whiskey sees the play half a second before it happens and puts himself in position to break it up. It’s a lazy pass from the Falcs, which is what let’s Whiskey speed in to steal the puck of their sticks. He’s in the Falcs end and Danny’s behind him and Danny shouts at him to shoot instead of pass. And this is Whiskey’s first NHL shot in two months. He holds his breath when he snaps his wrist. He feels the crowd inhale with him and he hears the cheers when the Falcs’ new goalie makes a glove save. 

Whiskey skates off the ice at the end of his shift with his teeth gritted. 

Becks crouches down behind him. 

“That was a good shot, Whisk,” she says, “If it was anyone other than Lebedev it would have gone in.”

Whiskey nods, he takes a massive gulp of his water and gets ready for his next shift. He doesn’t get a shot off for the rest of the third period. He’s still bouncing in the locker room during the intermission. There’s nothing on his mind other than hockey, nothing he wants to do more than crack Tyler Lebedev, the Falcs’ hot-streak goalie. 

“Whisk, you’re taking the faceoff,” St. Marie tells him, “Whisk line, out!” he shouts. 

Whiskey doesn’t have to be told twice. 

He looks up and sees Jack in front of him. Jack has a serious look in his eyes but a smirk on his lips. Whiskey’s stick doesn’t even touch the ice, Jack gets the puck on his stick that fast. 

Whiskey scowls. It’s fine. He just has to get the puck back. Whiskey throws his first NHL hit in two months and it feels good, the adrenaline hits his bloodstream and he digs the puck out from Jack’s skates with his stick. He hears Jack grunt. It’s Whiskey’s turn to smirk. Danny’s shouting at him to shoot again. Whiskey tries to go fivehole instead of glove side this time. There are more cheers as Lebedev turns the puck away. 

“Fuck,” Whiskey mutters when he gets back to the bench. 

Becks leans down again, “You know what I’m gonna say,” she says, “We’ll crack him.”

Whiskey hears the crowd erupt again, realizes the puck is in the back of their own net and he kicks the boards in front of him and groans. 

Jack’s celebration his own goal and Snowy’s shaking his head. 

Becks claps her hands. 

“Get one back, boys!” 

They do. Barnesy assists Jonesy’s goal and they celly harder than a game tying goal probably even warrants, but the bench is up on their feet and Whiskey is cheering along with the rest of his team and Danny throws his arms around Whiskey and they whoop and holler. All Whiskey can think about during the second intermission is how much he wants a goal of his own. 

He shoots again at the beginning of the third, this time Lebedev moves so that the puck deflects off of his pads, Danny picks up the puck and shoots for the rebound, Lebedev smothers it. Whiskey watches as the entire team showers Lebedev in shots, but not one of them gets past him, he seems absolutely determined not to let one more goal in. Snowy’s the same, absolutely refusing to give up another goal to his former team. 

The horn blows signalling the end of regulation and Whiskey can feel the anticipation in the air as they head to overtime. He keeps his eyes on St. Marie as he pulls out the whiteboard to draw up a play. 

“Whisk, Parson, Jones, you’re our guys for the first shift.”

And it says something about Whiskey’s dedication to winning this thing that he doesn’t even question being on the ice with Kent. If St. Marie and Becks think it’s the best way to actually win this thing, then Whiskey will do it. The horn goes to signal the start of overtime and Whiskey lines up at the faceoff dot across from Jack. Whiskey knows Jack’s moves now, this time he wins and he sends the puck back to Jonesy. They get set up, Jonesy carries the puck into the attacking zone. They’re patient. Kent circles around behind the net. He’s just quick enough that the Falcs almost lose track of where he is. He moves so he’s to the left of the net, Whiskey gets set up along the hashmarks and Jonesy passes to Kent. And Kent meets Whiskey’s eyes and Whiskey knows the plan instantly and Kent passes to Whiskey and Whiskey winds up for a slapshot, and he’s aiming and Lebedev’s pads, he’s not trying to hit the back of the net with this shot. The shot hit’s Lebedev’s pads and rebounds wide, Kent swoops in and flips the puck up and over Lebedev’s shoulder. The goal light goes on and Whiskey’s own cheering is drowned by the cheering of his own team. Jonesy throws one arm around Kent and the other around Whiskey and they celly together. 

Becks looks at Whiskey and just nods, like she’s proud of both of them for something. 

The adrenaline is still surging through him when they get to the bar in downtown Providence. There are Falcs in the bar and Nords in the bar and a whole fucking shitload of SMH alumni and players. 

“Enjoy that prime spot on the wall of fame, eh,” Jack knocks their shoulders together and teases him by the bar. 

Whiskey laughs. 

“I’m serious,” Jack says. And then he holds up his phone to show him a text conversation with “Coach Hall”

“Didn’t think you were serious,” Whiskey says. 

“I never joke about hockey,” Jack deadpans. 

“Shooooooots!” Shitty shouts, “Jack’s buying!” 

“I said no such thing,” Jack says, and then he slams down his credit card and orders a round of tequila. The Falcs and the Nords mix, Lebedev and Snowy shake hands and then Snowy starts catching up with the Falcs. Whiskey picks up Ford and spins her around. He feels good, realizes he’s only had one beer, and he still feels good anyway. 

“I haven’t seen you this happy in ages,” Ford says. 

Whiskey nods, “We just won.”

Ford nods, “Amazing!” she says, and she’s drunk. 

There’s more drinking and they head to a club where there’s some dancing, and Whiskey sees Ford dancing with Tango and he’s pretty sure Tango leans down and they kiss, but it’s really too dark to tell. Whiskey doesn’t drink a whole lot because he’s still riding adrenaline from the game. Jack and Bitty have gone home, Shitty and Lardo too, but Louis, Hops, and Bully are still going strong and Whiskey has a permanent grin on his face. He sees Kent. He’s sitting alone in a booth. Whiskey sits on the opposite end, just for a second. Kent’s nursing a gin and tonic, runs his finger over the rim of the glass. 

“Thanks for that assist,” Kent says. 

“You’re the one who put it in the net,” Whiskey says. 

“Wouldn’t have put it in the net without your shot.”

Whiskey shrugs. 

“You’re not really celebrating super hard,” Whiskey says. 

Kent shrugs, “Dunno.”

Whiskey shrugs too. He picks up his beer, he can’t help looking across the table at Kent while he takes a sip. Kent’s looking at him. Whiskey doesn’t know what the expression is, he misses the days when he could read Kent’s expressions like a book. He looks at Kent, raises an eyebrow and Kent looks right back at him. 

“It was a perfect goal,” Kent says. 

“We make a good team,” Whiskey says. 

Kent takes a long drink. 

“We always did,” Kent says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “Feels good. Just bein’ back on the ice. Contributing.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. 

Something about the way Kent’s looking at him feels like it’s burning, it makes him red under the collar, makes his breath catch in his throat. 

“I’m kind of tired,” Kent says in a way that doesn’t sound tired at all, “Wanna share an uber?”

Whiskey drains his beer, “Yeah, let’s go,” he says. 

They stand outside the club, waiting for the car. Kent keeps glancing down at his phone and Whiskey doesn’t know what’s happening here, but he’s happy and he’s tipsy and he’ll take whatever Kent has to give him. The ride is silent, so is the trek across the lobby and the ride up the elevator. 

They’re in their hallway and Kent looks down at the floor and looks up at him and he sighs. 

“I have my own room, if you want to…”

“Yes,” Whiskey says. 

It takes Kent two tries to swipe his keycard, Whiskey notices his hand shaking. 

As soon as the door clicks shut behind them, Whiskey grabs Kent by the wrist. He looks in his eyes, searching for permission, and Kent nods. Whiskey leans back against the door and pulls Kent towards him, boxing himself in. He slouches so that he’s shorter than Kent, cranes his neck up, but Kent’s the one who closes the distance to kiss him. For the first time in forever. And Kent kisses the breath right out of Whiskey and it’s familiar and it’s what Whiskey kept dreaming about, but this time it’s real, he knows it’s real because it hurts when Kent bites down on his bottom lip. It hurts but it feels unbelievably good at the same time. Whiskey pushes them forward, further into the room. Kent kicks his own shoes off and Whiskey follows suit. Kent falls backwards onto the hotel bed, he bounces a little bit. 

“This is a terrible idea,” Kent mutters. 

“Do you want me to leave?” Whiskey asks. 

“No,” Kent says immediately and he pulls his shirt over his head and starts working at his own belt. Whiskey adds his hands to the mix and gets Kent’s fly open. He climbs up onto the bed and straddles Kent’s lap, and he keeps kissing him, because he doesn’t want to forget what Kent’s lips feel like ever again. 

“Oh fuck,” Kent groans as Whiskey’s hand comes down to grasp at Kent’s dick. 

“I-” Whiskey doesn’t finish the sentence because the end of it was  _ miss you,  _ instead he just groans into Kent’s open mouth and keeps grinding down against his lap. Whiskey slides down off the bed and gets to his knees in between Kent’s legs and he helps Kent shimmy out of his pants and his underwear. It’s a familiar movement, as he takes Kent’s dick into his mouth. Kent’s hands come down to pet Whiskey’s hair, his other hand caresses his face. It’s far gentler than Whiskey thinks he deserves. 

“I’m close,” Kent says in a pinched off voice. 

“Fuck,” Kent hisses and Whiskey doesn’t move when Kent comes. 

He starts jerking himself off because, honestly who knows how long this is going to last, who knows if Kent is going to want to touch him. 

Kent falls back onto the bed breathing heavy. Then he sits up and he pulls Whiskey up by the shoulders and tugs him down with him, and Kent kisses him again, softer than before. He gets a hand on Whiskey’s dick and Whiskey can feel himself teetering on the edge. He bites down a confession of love, which he tells himself is just muscle memory at this point and doesn’t actually mean anything, that they’re both tipsy and they just won. And then Kent gets on top of him and he’s straddling him while he jerks him off, kissing him with his eyes closed. 

They both fall back, breathing heavy and Kent wipes his hand on his own discarded jeans and Whiskey realizes just how clear his head is. Because he’s sober, and he has been this whole time and Kent has been too, because neither one of them had more than one drink, neither one of them took the shots that Jack offered up. Because this was a sober decision, and Whiskey doesn’t know if he knows what to do with that information. 

“I’m gonna use your bathroom,” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah,” Kent says, still breathing heavy. And Whiskey pulls himself away from Kent, and that goes against every instinct and want in his body. He gathers his clothes while he walks.

And he walks into the bathroom and he tries not to look himself in the eyes while he washes his hands. He splashes water on his face and he tries not to think about what this means. Maybe it means they have to talk in the morning. He hopes it means they have to talk in the morning, because what he and Kent just did together (on the ice not in the hotel room) was something special and Whiskey’s not willing to fuck that up, and if he’s lucky, maybe what they did on the ice could mean  _ something.  _ The world feels a lot more hopeful after a win. 

Whiskey splashes some water on his face and then walks back into Kent’s hotel room. It’s dark now, Kent’s bedside lamp turned out, and Whiskey sees Kent underneath the blankets, presumably asleep. Whiskey collects his tie from the ground and looks over at Kent. He watches the rhythmic rise and fall of Kent’s chest, sees his eyes closed and sits down on the edge of the bed. 

“None of this is fair,” Whiskey mutters. And then he leans over and he kisses Kent on the side of the face and stands up. 

Kent keeps his eyes closed. Pretends to be asleep and hopes that Whiskey doesn’t see him shaking. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woooo finals are done! perhaps i will finish the rest of this fic over the winter break, but also maybe i won't, who knows, we'll see. i would love to know what you think! does it count as talking if you spend most of the time you're together boning?


	30. I don't know how to be something you miss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from last kiss by taylor swift

Danny’s alarm is one of the loudest that Whiskey has ever heard. It doesn’t matter though, Whiskey didn’t sleep much last night, and he’s been laying in bed staring at the ceiling for the past hour anyway. Danny stirs but he doesn’t wake up. Whiskey sighs. 

“Danny,” he whispers. 

Danny mumbles. 

“Danny!” Whiskey says slightly louder. 

Finally, whiskey decides to just throw a pillow at his head. 

“Mmmph,” Danny groans, “I’m up.”

“Turn your fucking alarm off,” Whiskey says. 

“Jesus,” Danny says, “Grumpy much?’

“Fuck off,” Whiskey says, “Couldn’t sleep. Sorry.”

“Ah,” Danny says, “Yeah, first assist back, that’ll do it.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, knowing full well that it wasn’t the game that kept him up thinking last night. 

“Breakfast?” Danny asks. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says. 

Whiskey gets out of bed and pulls a pair of sweats and a t- shirt out of his suitcase. He smiles at his hands for a reason he can’t quite put his finger on. He’s happy, and it’s the game, sure, it went well. But Whiskey’s felt good after games before, he knows how that’s supposed to feel. That’s not what this is. Not entirely anyway. Right now, he feels like anything is possible. Like something really fucking good could happen at any second if he wanted it to. He gets dressed and pulls his phone off of his dresser. 

The first thing he sees is a notification from the SMH chat. It’s a picture from Hops. 

**Hops:** **LMAO, brooo, they actually did it**

And then there’s a picture of Whiskey’s jersey hanging in the middle of Samwell’s wall of fame. They don’t retire jerseys or anything, but they honour them. It’s usually reserved for captains of winning teams, and guys who go on to make it to the NHL. When Whiskey went to Samwell the only recent jersey was Jack’s. And then there was Bitty’s after the championship. And when Samwell went back to back, they hung up Dex, Nursey’s and Chowder’s jerseys. It’s always been a matter of pride that Whiskey’s jersey got hung up right beside Tango’s after Samwell won three in a row. The championship felt amazing in the most impossible kind of way, but what made Whiskey really beam from the inside out was knowing that his jersey was going to be immortalized next to Tony Tangredi’s. 

Whiskey is infamous for ignoring the messages in just about every groupchat he’s been in. But he smiles at this, he double taps the message to like it and he even sends a message.

**Whiskey:** **good to know SMH still respects a bet**

Then he sees Jack’s message and smiles again

**Jack:** **we’ll have to swing by and check it out some time**

 **Whiskey:** **yeah, for sure**

And then Whiskey slides his phone into his pocket and grabs his wallet and follows Danny out of their hotel room. 

“You look wired for a guy who didn’t sleep last night,” Danny says on the elevator, and Whiskey realizes that he’s rocking back and forth on his feet. 

“Just buzzin’ for the game, I guess,” Whiskey says. 

“Damn, wish I had that energy,” Danny says and stretches his arm out above his head. He lets out what Whiskey can only describe as “a dad groan,” as the elevator dings and the door opens. 

“There he is!” Jonesy shouts. 

“That’s my OT assist hero!” Barnsey shouts.

They mob Whiskey and pull him into a tight hug. Whiskey can’t control the smile that spreads across his face. 

“Woah,” Whiskey says, “It’s not a big deal, I didn’t even score the goal.” Whiskey shrugs them off. 

“It’s your first point in over a month, dude,” Jonesy says. 

“Shit’s worth celebrating,” Barnesy adds. 

Whiskey laughs. 

“Besides, Parse hasn’t come down yet,” Jonesy says. 

“So don’t worry, he’s getting an OT hero hug too,” Barnesy says. 

Whiskey loads his plate up at the breakfast buffet, an omelette with chicken and spinach and feta and tomato, and a whole bunch of fucking toast. 

He follows Danny, sits down at a table where Barnesy and Mouse and Snowy are already sitting. Barnesy and Jonesy join them. 

They greet him with smiles and praise. Except Bobby. Bobby just looks up at him and nods, just to acknowledge his existence. 

“I’m fucking starving,” Snowy says. 

“God OT and then back to back games, it’s fucking torture,” Barnesy says. 

“Whisk over here is wired and ready to go,” Danny says. 

“M’sure it’ll wear off,” Whiskey laughs, “I’m just happy to be back,” he downs half of his protein shake. He looks down at his plate and decides to grab some more food. He’s hungry in the way that only hockey makes him hungry.

God, it’s good to be back. It’s good to feel good about hockey again. He gets up and grabs a couple more slices of bread and puts it in the toaster. He grabs a few packets of peanut butter and a knife while he waits for it to toast.. 

Bobby slides up beside him. 

“I’m calling the girls after breakfast,” Bobby says. 

“Yeah?” Whiskey says. 

“Piper wants to talk to you,” Bobby says. 

“I thought you were pissed at me,” Whiskey mutters, “Because you think I’m an asshole.”

Bobby sighs, he shrugs, “Piper wants to talk to you. I’m not gonna tell her about… I dunno, how you’re weird about a guy on our team. She’s a kid.”

“You know I’m… it’s not,” Whiskey groans, “You know what, let’s go make that phone call.”

“Your toast,” Bobby says. 

In that moment, Whiskey’s toast pops up. He opens the packet of peanut butter and squeezes it out onto one piece of toast and slaps the other one on top. He takes a massive bite. 

“Let’s go,” he says through a mouthful of peanut butter. 

Bobby sighs and holds his hand out for Whiskey to lead the way. 

Whiskey leads them back to his own room and closes the door behind him. 

“Before you call them,” Whiskey says, “I’m not an asshole the way you think I am. Like I can be an asshole, but…” he trails off and sighs, “Look, you know I played in college, right?”

Bobby sits on the edge of the bed and crosses his arms. 

“Yeah, I don’t know what this has to do-”

“Just listen. Samwell University, right, we had the first openly gay div. 1 men’s hockey captain.”

“That doesn’t prove-”

“We didn’t get along,” Whiskey says, “Because he made a whole lot of pie, and I don’t like pie so he assumed I didn’t like him. And he was kind of nosy and I didn’t like that. But I still talk to him. We’re in a groupchat. After my shoulder surgery, he checked in on me. And I hung out with him and his boyfriend, Jack Zimmermann, I’m sure you’ve heard of him, first openly LGBT NHL player, kissed Bitty after he won the cup.”

Bobby raises an eyebrow, “Whisk, just because-”

“I’m not done,” Whiskey says, “I got into other schools. Ones closer to home, ones with better scholarship packages, better teams. But I picked Samwell, and I’m glad I did. But uh, looking back,” he interrupts himself, “There’s a point to this, I swear,” he sighs and keeps going, “They have this unofficial motto. I heard it on the tour. One in four, maybe more.”

Bobby’s looking at him, he still has his arms crossed and brows raised, but he is listening, giving Whiskey his full attention.

“They’re talking about the LGBT kids at Samwell. That for every four of us, one of us isn’t straight, one of us isn’t cis. And uh, you know, on the hockey team… odds are a little skewed, it’s not quite one in four. But uh, it wasn’t just Bitty when I played there,” he swallows. 

Bobby cocks his head to the side, “Whisk, I’m kinda lost here.”

“It was Bitty. Bitty was gay, openly. Which was great, y’know, good for him and good for Jack. But it wasn’t just… I was, uh,” he clears his throat, “I was less open, but I was bisexual. I mean… still am. But uh, yeah. One in four, me.”

“Oh,” Bobby says, and his eyes are wide, and Whiskey’s looking at the ground.

“I can’t tell a lot of people about that,” Whiskey says, “And it stresses me the fuck out. That’s, you know, near the top of a list of things that stress me the fuck out. I had a bad time in Detroit. Like, it sucked. I was alone and I was hurt more often that I wasn’t. And I’m already kind of an anxious person, but being in Detroit made it worse. And I know I can be an asshole sometimes, and I’m a jerk to people who don’t deserve it. But uh, living with you and your family, that’s been the best thing that happened to me all season and your a great dad, and a better teammate, and the last thing I want is to fuck that up becase you don’t know who I am. Because I’m anxious over it. I guess. It’s not… it has very little to do with Kent-er, with Parson” 

Whiskey clears his throat.

Bobby just nods, he looks up at Whiskey for a minute. 

“I didn’t want to tll you because… I guess I didn’t want you to think about me any different. I hang out with your kids, and… You know, those days I hung out with Piper while I was hurt, just shooting around in the driveway, sometimes that was the only thing I had to look forward to in a day. I didn’t know what to do with myself, but you guys… dunno, you made it feel less shitty that I wasn’t playing, and I felt like I belonged with you guys, with Piper and Avery, and you and Em. I didn’t want to change anything.”

“Dude,” Bobby says. 

And then he stands up, and he throws his arms around Whiskey and he hugs him. It’s not a bro hug, not the kind that Barnesy and Jonesy give him. It’s the kind where Bobby holds him, the way he hugs Piper and Avery when he gets back from a game. The way Whiskey always kind of wished his dad would have hugged him. It’s the kind of hug that invites him to rest his head on Bobby’s shoulder and close his eyes.

“It’s good, man,” Bobby says, “Uh, it’s, you’re, you’re good.”

“Thanks,” Whiskey says, “I’m working on it, I swear,” he steps back and takes a short sharp breath, “I really do like bein’ here. It’s, everyone here is great. I’m glad. I just,” Whiskey laughs and then he looks at Bobby, “How equipped are you to handle gay jokes?”

Bobby laughs, “I’d say pretty solid.”

“I’ve had my tongue in too many guys’ mouths for you to think I’m some kinda homophobe.”

And Bobby, to his credit, laughs at that, really hard. And he breaks into a grin and claps Whiskey on the shoulder. 

“That has now been effectively communicated,” Bobby chuckles. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey smiles. 

“This is awkward,” Bobby says. 

“This is awkward,” Whiskey agrees. 

“Let’s call before Pipes loses her mind,” Bobby says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey laughs. 

So Whiskey sits on the hotel bed while Bobby tells Piper and Avery how much he misses them and he listens to Piper talk about her own hockey game last night, and she tells Whiskey that she watched the highlight pack from their game last night and that his assist was, “absolutely visionary.”

And then Piper hangs up and Bobby smiles to himself and then to Whiskey. 

“We’re good, right?” Whiskey asks. 

“Yeah, we’re good,” Bobby says. 

And Whiskey feels even better. He feels like everything is looking up, and anything could happen, and there’s a weight that feels like it’s been lifted. Just a little it, because he told Bobby at least part of the truth. He clears his throat. 

They don’t need to take a flight to Boston. Instead the team takes a bus to a second hotel. Whiskey sits near the front of the bus, Becks tells him she wants to talk before the game. Kent sits near the back. Whiskey watches him get on the bus. Kent doesn’t look at him, but that’s nothing new. Whiskey watches him take his seat. Kent’s always been the brightest thing in the room, no matter what the room is. He looks brighter now. Whiskey thinks he’d give anything to kiss him again, to be able to fall asleep next to him again. He wants it. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to have it, but oh god, does he want it. 

“Alright, Whisk,” Becks sits down next to him, she’s holding her notebook. 

Whiskey snaps back into reality and looks at Becks. 

“That was one hell of a game, how do you feel about it?”

Whiskey nods, “Really good, I’m fired up, coach,” he says. 

“And the shoulder?” She asks. 

“Feels good,” Whiskey says. 

And Becks is smiling, a little bit self satisfied but Whiskey thinks she has a right to be. This was her plan. And as impatient as Whiskey had been at the start, he can admit that this was the right thing to do. 

“Good,” Becks says, “Okay, we’ll touch base in Boston, but it’s looking like you’re good to play tonight too. As long as you promise you’re up for it.”

“I am,” Whiskey says. 

“Good, now take a nap,” Becks pats him on the arm, and she smiles as genuinely as she can manage. 

Whiskey lays back and closes his eyes. And he thinks about Kent. He just keeps fucking thinking about Kent. Because last night was something. Because last night felt good in a lot of different ways, and Whiskey feels like he’s on top of the world and he’s not thinking about anything that might take him down. And he lets himself think, for the first time since the night they ended things, about what it would be like to be with Kent again. Not just the way they had been together last night. The way they had been together for the past three years. 

He turns around and looks at Kent in his seat, he’s wearing headphones and he has his eyes closed, and he’s so beautiful. He’s always beautiful. Always has been. 

Maybe. He lets him think. Just maybe. 

They get off the bus in Boston. Whiskey’s still sharing a room with Danny, that fact doesn’t sting at all now that hBobby knows what’s going on. 

He wonders if he’d be allowed to share a room with Kent, if they got back together. He wonders if he deserves to get back together with Kent. He flops down onto his bed when he decides that he probably doesn’t. 

He sighs.

The team gives them a per diem to buy lunch when they’re on the road, so they all go to the hotel restaurant. Kent and Whiskey end up sitting on opposite sides of the table, on opposite ends. Bobby sits next to Kent and Mouse, and Whiskey’s at the other end of the table with Jonesy and Barnesy. 

He sees Kent get up to use the bathroom. It’s not on purpose, but he gets up at the same time. He’s not following him, but they end up in the bathroom at the same time, washing their hands at the same time, looking at each other in the mirror at the same time. 

“We’ve got time before we have to be at the rink,” Kent says, “We could… go upstairs,” Kent says. And he doesn’t look Whiskey in the eye when he says it. 

And Whiskey nods. 

“After lunch?” he says. 

“Yeah,” Kent agrees. 

“I’ll eat fast,” Whiskey says. 

Kent laughs, dryly. He leaves the bathroom first. 

For the second time in as many days, Whiskey follows Kent up to him hotel room and kisses him against the door and straddles him on the bed and kisses him while they have sex and he doesn’t kiss him after, because he gets up to use the bathroom and then he says, “see you at the rink,” and slips out of the room.

He’s flushed from the neck up and something in his chest feels warm. It feels like hope. Feels like, maybe, in his own weird way, Kent could want him back too. 

Whiskey banks another assist that night off of Mouse’s goal at TD Garden. 

And when they celebrate, Whiskey’s own cheering surprises him. He checks his phone after the game. 

**Tango:** **Whiskey is back!!!!!!**

 **Tango:** **officially on a point streak babey!!**

 **Ford:** **i’m so happy for you!!! :D**

 **Tango:** **remember us when you’re on the front of cereal boxes**

 **Whiskey:** **thanks guys**

 **Ford:** **how are you?**

Whiskey knows that Ford means the question seriously. Because he told her all about how his hockey doesn’t always translate to his mental state. That just because he’s playing good, doesn’t mean he’s doing good. And he smiles to himself. 

**Whiskey:** **really, really good**

 **Whiskey:** **I mean it. It really feels like i’m in the right place, doing the right thing**

 **Tango:** **:D :D :D**

 **Ford:** **FUCK YEAH**

 **Whiskey:** **i love you guys.**

Whiskey throws his phone into his jacket pocket. 

“Hey Parson,” someone comes into the room and grabs him for media.

Whiskey jumps up from his stall in the visitor’s dressing room and finds Becks in the coach’s room. 

“Hey” he says, “Can we talk?”

“Yeah,” Becks answers. 

“In private?”

“Sure,” Becks nods. 

So they find an empty office, and Becks leans against the desk. 

“Shoot,” Becks says, “Is it about the game? Is your shoulder okay?”

“Yeah, it’s uh… personal question,” Whiskey says. 

Becks clears her throat awkwardly, “That’s uh, not really my forte,” she says. 

“Well, I just… this is private right. And everything I say is hypothetical.”

“As long as no one’s in any danger,” Becks confirms. 

“Okay,” Whiskey says. 

Becks looks at him expectantly. 

“So if, hypothetically, there were two teammates, on a hockey team… obviously. And if, hypothetically, they were together… or wanted to get together, or one of them wanted to ask the other if they wanted to get together…” He trailers off, “Well, how would you feel about that?”

It’s hope. Hope that whatever’s going on with Kent could turn into something more. But it’s also caution. Because Quebec City is the best place he’s ever played hockey, and he’s happy here and he knows Kent is happy here and he knows that Becks, for fear of awkwardness, won’t tell anyone what Whiskey just said. 

Becks just stares at him for a beat, and for a second, Whiskey’s afraid. And then Becks snorts. 

“How much do you know about women’s hockey, Whisk?” She asks 

“Uhhh,” Whiskey says. 

“Okay, so. I have never played on a team where girls didn’t date each other, or hook up. Fuck, when I played for the national team, my captain married our goalie. It’s not that big of a deal,” she says. 

And Whiskey nods. 

“So if, hypothetically someone wanted to date their teammate, I would be in their hypothetical corner.”

“Hypothetically, thank you,” Whiskey says. 

“Now, I’m not asking any fucking questions. I do not want to know unless you want to tell me,” she says. 

Whiskey nods, “That’s uh, that’s it.”

“Okay,” Becks says. 

“You’re a good coach,” Whiskey says, “Thanks.”

“Fuck off,” Becks says, “Don’t get sappy, I’ll cry.”

Whiskey sleeps on the plane. Playing hockey has given him the special talent of being able to just pass out wherever. They board the plane a couple hours after their game. Whiskey does the math and figures they’ll be home by four in the morning. 

The airport is empty when they pick up their luggage after the game. Everyone is yawning, but Whiskey’s pretty well rested from his nap on the plane. He finds himself standing next to Kent. He looks over at him, Kent doesn’t look up. 

“Hey,” Whiskey says and he doesn’t know what he’ll say next, but he just wants to say something to Kent. 

Kent doesn’t say anything to him. He walks away. In a way that can’t be anything but intentional. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they're disasters. really and truly, just so fucking stupid. whiskey really said "i am doing well, let me try to win back my ex boyfriend but i don't know how to actually do that so we will just be fucking"


	31. Too afraid of what they'd say

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from the story by conan gray

Whiskey doesn’t tell anyone that he wants to get back together with Kent, least of all Kent. So, when they keep hooking up in hotel rooms after away games, Whiskey thinks it’s fine. It’s just the first step of many when it comes to getting back together. Kent’s just slow. He’ll get to where Whiskey is eventually. And if he doesn’t, well, Whiskey’s just glad to have this. 

It’s quiet. They don’t talk much. Kent is familiar, his body is familiar. Whiskey knows what Kent wants, but talking about it might break whatever it is they have going on. So they sneak off after road games to Kent’s room. It’s always Kent’s room, because Kent’s allowed to ask for a single room instead of sharing as part of his contract. Whiskey wants to stay, every time, he wants to stay. He wants to go to sleep and wake up pressed to Kent and kiss him good morning. He hates himself for taking a single one of those mornings for granted. 

He doesn’t stay. He never does. He gets up, uses Kent’s bathroom and when he gets out, Kent’s asleep. When they get back to Quebec City, Kent goes back to his regular ignoring Whiskey schedule. 

Whiskey can’t stop looking at Kent. It doesn’t help that they play hockey together, and Whiskey secretly not so secretly thinks that being good at hockey is one of the sexiest things a person can be. 

The Nords are scrimaging in practice. It’s an easy practice, a scrimmage and a couple shooting drills, a reward for winning their past three games. Bobby’s leading Whiskey’s team, Kent leading the other, and Becks wants Kent to try playing centre for a couple practices. Whiskey loses every single faceoff to Kent because his heart stops for just a beat and he pauses, hesitates just long enough for Kent to sweep the puck out from under his stick. He sees Becks giving him a sideways look when he gets back to the bench after the third shift where he loses a faceoff to Kent. Kent takes his helmet off during a stoppage in play and he’s running his hands through his hair and his cowlick is standing up at a truly awful angle. Bobby skates past him on his way to the bench and drags his glove over Kent’s hair. Kent punches him but he laughs. Kent skates over to the bench and grabs a water bottle. Whiskey watches him squirt the water into his mouth. It dribbles down his chin and Kent has to wipe it away with the sleeve of his jersey and Whiskey has to remind himself to close his mouth and listen to Becks telling them about the lines they’re going to be running for the next part of the scrimmage. Whiskey turns to the left, he sees Kent and Mouse screwing around while St. Marie draws up the lines for the other team. Kent sprays Mouse with his water bottle. Whiskey hears Mouse laughing and then he hears Kent’s laugh. It’s familiar and foreign at the same time. He can’t remember the last time he made Kent laugh. 

They had sex again last night, because they were on the road and they’d made eye contact in the dressing room and obviously that could only mean one thing. There’s a bruise on Whiskey’s hip from where Kent had held him down and sucked him off. 

“Got that Whisk?” Becks asks. 

“Uh, yeah,” Whiskey says and then hops over the boards. 

“What am I supposed to get?” Whiskey mutters to Bobby. 

Bobby snorts and explains the play to him. 

They have now had sex in three provinces and seven states and Quebec is not one of them. He’s pretty sure that Kent hasn’t spoken a complete sentence to him in weeks. It’s three weeks into January, and Whiskey’s doing good. He thinks he is. He hopes he is. He’s doing good until he remembers Kent. Hooking up with Kent is something, and Whiskey would rather have something than nothing, but he always leaves Kent’s hotel room feeling worse than when he walked in. It feels like something is tugging at his heart, begging him to walk back into the hotel room. He never does. Because Kent’s always asleep and Whiskey doesn’t know if he’d even know what to say. 

The puck drops and Mouse wins the faceoff and Whiskey exhales, frustrated with himself. 

He has hope. Because he’s trying to choose hope more often than not. His sport psychologist doesn’t know about Kent, but he keeps telling Whiskey that he needs to stop jumping straight to pessimism when it comes to hockey. He needs to believe that he’s good enough to play. So maybe that’s all he needs to do with Kent, to believe that he’s good enough to win him back. 

He takes a hard check from Jonesy and he goes down. It’s his fault. He wasn’t paying attention, but he hits the ice with a groan. He gets to his hands and knees almost immediately, knows he just needs to shake it off. But the team stops playing immediately and they surround him. 

“I’m fine,” Whiskey says. 

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” Jonesy says.

“Dude, it’s good,” Whiskey grunts when he sits up, he shakes out his arms. 

Whiskey sees Kent standing behind the rest of the team. He’s looking at Whiskey with an expression that can only be described as haunted. Whiskey gets to his feet and he loses track of where Kent is, but when Whiskey gets back up, Kent’s sitting on the bench with his head down. 

The scrimmage is over and the team hits the showers and Becks makes Whiskey talk to the trainers and Doc Brown just to make sure his shoulder is fine. It is, he knew it would be. 

“Hey,” Bobby catches Whiskey coming out of the trainer’s room and grabs him by the shoulder.

“Hey,” Whiskey says. 

“I’m not gonna be home right away, you can take the car and I’ll get an uber home.”

Whiskey nods. 

“I’ll see you for dinner though,” Bobby says. 

“Cool.”

Kent walks into the coaches’ office after practice. His hair is still wet from the shower and he’s wearing his team issued track pants and a t- shirt. Bobby’s already standing in the room, leaning against one of the walls. Becks is perched on the edge of a chair, St. Marie is sitting behind the desk. There’s an anticipation in the air, but not an anxiety. There are some video coaches, and Kent sees the GM, Fred Derochers sitting next to St. Marie. Kent shoves his hands into his pockets and looks at the ground. He can’t help but feel like he’s been called into the principal’s office because he’s done something wrong. Kent looks up at Becks first, and then Bobby, because those are the people he trusts most in this room. 

Bobby looks equally confused and Becks is also looking down. Kent can’t tell if it’s because there’s something wrong or if it’s because she doesn’t know how to hold herself in this situation. 

“Parson,” Derochers says, and he stands up. He has a heavy Quebec accent and glasses that sit on the bridge of his nose. He’s young, maybe 40 or so. Kent doesn’t interact with him all that much, takes it as a good sign that he’s not in trouble, “Have a seat, boys.”

“What’s going on, Fred?” Bobby asks. 

Kent breathes a sigh of relief that Bobby also doesn’t know what’s going on. 

“It’s good news,” Derochers says. 

“Okay?” Kent asks. 

“We’ve been discussing it,” Fred says, “And as we know, we don’t have an official leadership core on the team. We’d like to establish one before the playoffs.”

Kent nods. 

“So,” Derochers nods in St. Marie’s direction. St. Marie pulls a box out from under the table. Kent sees the sky blue of the nordiques home jerseys. St. Marie hands them off to Becks, and Becks promptly throws one of the jerseys at Bobby and the other at Kent. It hits Kent in the chest and falls onto his lap. He sees his name stitched on the back and he turns it over. 

The C stares him in the face and the only thing he can think, is that he doesn’t deserve it. 

“Oh,” Bobby says, and he’s looking down at his own jersey, there’s an A stitched on the shoulder, “I’m uh, I’m honoured.”

Kent nods. 

“We’re talking about a reveal in February, we’ll do a video, a press release and then we’ll announce it at our home game,” Derochers says. 

“That’s solid,” Bobby says. 

And Kent’s trying to smile as wide as Bobby is smiling. Kent’s worn the C before. It’s been on his jersey for more games than it hasn’t. It comes with something, a pressure. An expectation that he has everything together for everyone else’s sake. It wasn’t true in Vegas, and it’s not true here. 

Derochers is grinning, and St. Marie is grinning and the video coaches are smiling and Becks is as close to smiling as she ever gets. 

“We’ve been thinking about how to define our leadership core since day one,” St. Marie says, “And the way you two interact with the team, the qualities you’ve shown were perfect.”

Becks nods, “Just keep doing what you’re doing. The letters just make it official.”

“Thank you,” Bobby says. 

“You’ve earned it,” Derochers says. 

Kent swallows hard, the coaches turn their attention to him. 

“Parson? Are you alright?” St. Marie asks. 

“I need to think about it,” Kent blurts. 

He stands up, and the jersey falls to the floor and he leaves the room. 

He hears murmuring behind him, but he leaves. He just has to leave. He heads into the dressing room to grab his stuff. He hears the door swing open. 

“Fuck off, I’m fine,” Kent says. 

“It’s just me,” Bobby says.

“Point stands,” Kent says. 

He sits down in his stall and puts his head in his hand. 

“I just need to go home,” Kent says, “I’m fucking tired.”

“Yeah,” Bobby says, “You look it.”

“Fuck,” Kent sighs. 

He knows he doesn’t look great. He knows he seems moody and distant and he knows he hasn’t been talking to Bobby nearly as much since Whiskey moved in with him.

“I talked to Becks after you left. She says to call her tomorrow. Take the night to think about the whole captaincy thing. Whatever you decide.”

Kent can tell Bobby has more he wants to say, but he doesn’t say it. 

“You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, “I’m grabbing dinner with a friend tonight. I’ll be good.”

The thing Whiskey likes most about the winter in Quebec City is that he can actually skate outside. He and Piper carry their equipment to an outdoor rink in the park a block away from the Robertson house. Some days Avery comes with them. Not today though. It’s just Whiskey and Piper. They bring their hockey sticks and there’s a net at one end of the ice, but today they just skate around, aimlessly in circles. Whiskey thinks that it’s, perhaps, slightly pathetic, that the person he spends the most time with outside the rink is a literal kid. But hey, they’re both having fun. 

“I want to try out for the select team,” Piper says, and her voice is somber, “I still have to tell mom and dad, but.. I guess. I dunno. Do I actually want to do it. I’m nervous to try.”

“Don’t be nervous,” Whiskey says, and then he realizes that’s terrible advice. 

Piper laughs, “If I play with them, it means I’ll be playing a year up and it’ll be serious… but I think I’m ready for serious.”

“You’re already pretty serious,” Whiskey says. 

Piper shakes her head, “Not like this. The coach said, it’s intense.”

“You’re supposed to have fun,” Whiskey points out. 

“I’m not really having fun with my team right now anyway,” Piper says, “It’s too easy.”

“Then try out for the select team,” Whiskey says. 

Piper groans. It’s really a simple solution. 

“What’s the worst that happens if you ask?”

“They’ll say no,” Piper says. 

“What about the best?”

“I get to play on the select team, and I’m really good and it’s really fun and then I’m in the Olympics.”

“Well,” Whiskey says, “Seems like there are more pros than cons.”

“Yeah,” Piper says, “Yeah! I’ll ask dad when he gets home.”

“Cool. Wanna race?”

Kent has a habit of getting to dinner early. It’s the anxiety of people thinking he’s a jerk that always makes him at least half an hour early for any reservation so that there’s no possible way he’ll be late. 

Swoops, of course, knows this, and he and Kelli also show up half an hour early for their reservation. Swoops brings Kent into a hug, and then it’s Kelli’s turn. 

“God, Parser, it’s been fucking ages,” Swoops says.

“I miss you guys,” Kent smiles. 

They’re lead to their table and Kent sits down on the side opposite to them. 

“So, how’s Benji?” Kent asks. He goes to his old standby for making people think he’s going well, smiling and steering the conversation away from himself. 

“Huge!” Swoops says, “He’s growing like crazy.”

Kelli laughs, “We left him with the babysitter for the first time.”

“Oh, wow,” Kent says, “For me?”

“Aw, Parse, you’re worth it,” Swoops says. 

Kelli nods in agreement. 

“Fuck off, you’ll make me cry,” Kent says to distract from the fact that he is genuinely close to tears at the thought. 

Kent has a list of things in his head he won’t bring up at dinner, they include; the captaincy, Whiskey, how tired he is, how sad he is, how he’s been having sex with whiskey, and how he is probably still in love with Whiskey but won’t say it out loud. So he asks about the baby and they talk about hockey and it’s not like it’s a bad dinner. On the contrary, he laughs and he’s happy and his friends are across the table from him and he’s missed them more than any other part of being in Vegas and he leaves with the assurance that “we’ll do this the next time we’re in the same city.”

Kent leaves feeling good and by the time he gets home, he’s crying. He missed his friends and they had to leave. His team wants him to be their captain and he’s convinced he shouldn’t do it. He’s having sex with Whiskey despite not being able to look him in the eye or say more than ten words in a row to him. How is he supposed to be a captain like that? 

By the time he gets out of his car and unlocks his door, he’s drained and there are tear tracks running down his face. Kit doesn’t move when Kent walks in. She stays in her usual resting place on the middle couch cushion, taking up as much space as possible. So Kent sits next to her and he rests his hand on top of her head. She leans into his touch and he scratches between her ears. 

“What’s it like to live with the world’s biggest fuck up?” Kent asks. 

Kit just stares at him blankly. 

“You’re the only one who sees that, huh?” he asks, “Everyone else thinks I’m good enough to be captain.”

She meows. 

“I don’t know if I’m leading him on or if we’re both doing what we want to do, or if he’s leading me on,” Kent sighs. 

“I miss Swoops, and I miss Kelli and their adorable god damn kid. And I miss Connor.”

Kit doesn’t react. 

“I’m supposed to call Becks in the morning, but I don’t know what to say. I guess I’m supposed to say yes. I don’t think saying no is even an option. I liked it in Vegas. Being the captain. When there was a rookie or someone who needed help. I didn’t like the press. But nobody likes the press. I liked a lot of it. I just… did I earn it?”

Kit meows again. 

“God, I wish I could have one crisis at a time, like a normal person. I fucking love him,” Kent groans. 

He hasn’t admitted it in a while. 

And then he’s crying again, “I fucking love him.”

Because he does, and as far as he’s concerned, he never stopped. But he still hurts, somewhere deep in his chest. He still remembers that night and he remembers the finality that Whiskey had spoken with and the silence of the drive back to Whiskey’s apartment. He remembers the way he had to change his pillowcases the morning after he got home because they were so tearstained. And he remembers his team, and he remembers feeling safe and okay when they came over. And he remembers how it all shattered when he heard Whiskey was coming to QC. 

“Fuck,” he says. 

And then he’s angry. He’s just so fucking angry, that he’s here. That he’s in this situation in the first place. He’s angry at himself and he’s angry at Whiskey and he’s angry at Becks and St. Marie and Bobby and Mouse and Derochers and the GM in Vegas who agreed to trade him. And he’s pissed at Jack and he’s pissed at the doctors in Detroit who gave Whiskey those pills. 

Kent wants to do something stupid, he wants to do something destructive, content to keep suffering. He goes to bed instead. 

Being in the same room as Whiskey makes Kent feel like he’s suffocating. Because he admitted it last night. He admitted it to his cat, but it counts. He said it out loud. He fucking loves him. There’s a part of him that wants nothing more than to see Whiskey thrive and keep thriving, but there’s another part that wishes he didn’t have to be here. Whiskey started doing better when they broke up, and Kent’s convinced that that can’t be a coincidence. So, he goes back to avoiding him. It’s harder now that Whiskey’s playing every game instead of just coming in for practices. Kent manages though. When he can, he just leaves the room. When he can’t, he won’t look at him. 

Despite his best efforts, though, every time they’re on the road, Whiskey ends up in his room. Kent knows he should say something. Knows it’s the grown up thing to do, but he doesn’t have the words. So he just keeps playing, keeps going to practice and working out and hooking up with Whiskey on the road, keeps sitting through awkward silences. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you've all been wanting a look inside kent's dumb little head, so here it is, it's dumb. there are like five-ish chapters left in this bad boy, but uhhhhhh, i have an idea for a part three so you can't get rid of me that easily.


	32. There's something I'm supposed to say but can't for the life of me remember what it is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from moon song by phoebe bridgers

Kent and Snowy get selected to go to the All-Star game. In nearly ten seasons, Kent’s only missed the game once and it was because he broke his wrist. Whiskey’s looking forward to the bye week, he’s planning on staying with Tango in Massachusetts for the weekend and going to a couple SMH games. 

He’s in his room and his suitcase is laying open at the foot of his bed, there are some clothes laying around, but the suitcase is open. He’s on his phone. 

“God damn it!” He hears Bobby curse from up the stairs. 

Whiskey sits up. 

“You good?” Whiskey shouts. 

“I have to go to the fucking all star game,” Bobby groans. 

Whiskey wanders up the stairs, sees Bobby looking grumpy. He leans against the fridge. 

“Isn’t that like, a good thing.”

“I told Em we could go somewhere warm on vacation,” Bobby says, “Now I have to break it to her that we have to haul off to Calgary in fucking February.”

Whiskey laughs, “Good luck with that, buddy.”

Bobby groans, “You wanna break my toes or something.”

“Nope,” Whiskey says, “You’re on your own.”

Whiskey opens the fridge and takes a sip of orange juice out of the carton. 

“I thought Snowy and Parse were going,” Whiskey says. 

“They are,” Bobby says, “I won a god damn fan vote,” he grumbles. 

“Well,” Whiskey says, he puts the orange juice back, “You’re fault for being so gosh darn likeable,” he smirks. 

“Asshole,” Bobby says. 

Whiskey puts one a mocking tone, “Ohhh nooo, my name is Gordon Robertson and I’m too good at hockey and too many people like me,” he holds his hand to his forehead, “My life is so hard,” he deadpans

“Fuck you, man,” Bobby laughs. 

Whiskey just rolls his eyes and smiles. 

They have one last practice before the bye week. Whiskey’s learned to relish in his routine. The morning coffee stop with Bobby, shuffling into the practice rink, still tired. He likes the way the world feels in the morning, quiet, and calm and cold. 

“Hey! Mr. Big Deal!” Snowy shouts when Bobby walks into the player’s lounge. 

“All-Star in the room!” Jonesy shouts. 

Bobby laughs, “S’too early for flattery,” Bobby takes a sip of coffee and laughs

Becks walks through the player’s lounge on her way to the ice. 

“Morning,” she says, “On the ice in 20.”

“Yes ma’am,” Barnesy and Jonesy say. 

“Oh, and Robertson,” she turns around and there’s a smirk on her face, “I’m sure your wife is thrilled about Calgary. She leaves the room to a chorus of laughs. 

St. Marie and Becks skate them hard. Whiskey can always tell which coach has designed a practice, because Becks has them conditioning like their lives depend on it. Everyone groans and complains, but Whiskey can’t hate it. He’s back on the ice, he has two working shoulders and he’s on a team that finally feels like a team. So what if he has to do some skating drills? He’ll do whatever it takes. He’ll survive it. 

Becks blows her whistle at the end of practice. 

“Circle-up, gentlemen!” she yells. 

Whiskey can hear the heavy breathing of his teammates. He watches guys wiping sweat from their brows. 

Robert stands in the middle. 

“Well, it’s a good day for two of our guys,” Robert says, “Parson, Robertson, Snow, congratulations on the All-Star game, enjoy Calgary,” he says, he keeps talking. Whiskey’s still catching his breath, “We also want to let you boys know, we’re going to be announcing the leadership group after the bye week. Let’s get a round of applause for your captain and his alternate, Parse and Bobby,” St. Marie gestures to the two of them. 

Bobby’s smiling, Whiskey turns his attention to Kent. Kent’s looking down at the ice, there’s a hint of a smile on his face, and anyone who looked at him would probably just assume he’s just being his regular modest self, but Whiskey can see something else in his expression. It’s a kind of unease that Whiskey hopes he didn’t cause. 

He can’t talk to Kent about it, that’s not his place anymore. So he taps his stick against the ice and makes himself smile. 

His flight for Samwell leaves tomorrow, he has to pack, he has to double check that Tango’s good to pick him up in the morning. He’s got to say goodbye to Piper and Avery and have dinner with the family before he leaves. Emily brings home pizza and Piper and Avery cheer for junk food. Bobby and Avery make a massive bowl of popcorn and they hole up in front of the TV and Piper picks the movie and they watch  _ She’s The Man  _ for the third movie night since Whiskey’s moved in. They put pillows on the floor and Piper and Avery make a small blanket fort. Whiskey looks over at Bobby and Emily and he lets himself smile. It was a strange kind of whiplash, going from Detroit to QC in a lot of different ways. But the weirdest one was the sheer amount of happily married guys around him. Because in Detroit, none of the guys he hung out with were in love with anyone. They weren’t ‘relationship guys.’

The thing is though, Whiskey is a relationship guy. He can do the whole hooking up thing and he can do casual, but he doesn’t  _ like  _ it. He likes being in love, and he likes being in a relationship. He likes actually  _ knowing  _ the person he’s with, he likes looking at someone the way Bobby looks at Sucks, that he can’t have that. 

Kent’s not looking forward to the All-Star weekend, not because he hates the game or anything. He actually really enjoys the weekend, he likes the skills competition, and he likes the game. What he’s not looking forward to is, Jack, Bitty, Bobby, Alexei Mashkov, Swoops and Scraps all being in the same city and like… perceiving him, well he’s not sure he can keep the act up for that long in front of that many people. It’s only Tuesday, he’s flying to Calgary on Thursday, he has time to practice his act. 

Whiskey stays with Tango since Ford has a roommate and Tango lives in a bachelor style apartment. 

“I set up an air mattress, but you’re taking the bed. I’m not gonna be responsible for damaging Quebec Nordiques property with a shitty mattress.”

Whiskey laughs, “Okay man, whatever you say.”

Tango’s a relatively clean guy, but there’s only so much you can do to keep a 350sq. foot apartment tidy. He clears some textbooks off the living room table and throws them on the floor underneath. The air mattress takes up most of the space in what would be Tango’s dining room. 

“You can just leave your stuff on the mattress,” Tango says. 

Whiskey and Tango flop onto Tango’s couch. 

“It’s not much,” Tango says, “But it’s a short commute to the school and Samwell.”

“Yeah, it’s a nice place,” Whiskey says, “I like it.”

“It’s a lot quieter than the Haus, that’s for sure,” Tango says. 

“Yeah, that’s for sure.”

“I miss it sometimes,” Tango says. 

“Yeah, me too. Miss you guys climbing in my window,” Whiskey laughs. 

“Aw,” Tango elbows him, “I miss bugging you too.”

“You never bugged me, man. I love you guys.”

“Am I allowed to ask about hockey?” Tango asks. 

“Yeah, why wouldn’t you be?”

“I dunno, if it’s not going well you might not want to talk about it?”

“Aw, thanks T,” Whiskey says, “But it’s good. Still haven’t gotten that goal yet, but I’m getting there.”

“You were always a playmaking kinda guy anyway,” Tango says. 

Whiskey shrugs, “What’s Ford up to?”

“Classes until four,” Tango says. 

“Cool,” Whiskey answers. He looks at the textbooks on the floor and he seriously doubts that Tango has an anthology of every single Shakespeare play kicking around for fun. He raises an eyebrow. 

“She studies here sometimes,” Tango mumbles. 

“Often enough that she just leaves her stuff here?” Whiskey says with a smirk. 

“Man, you’re the worst,” Tango says. 

“I literally saw you making out after the winter classic.”

Whiskey can see Tango flushing from the neck up. 

“Ah shit,” Tango says, “This is weird. We’re just… it’s not. It’s casual,” Tango says. 

“She’s not here, you know?” Whiskey says, “I know you’re in love with her, so,” Whiskey says. 

“I’m not… okay I am. But it’s not like we can just, date or something.”

“Why not?” Whiskey asks. 

“God, how come you’re the one with all the questions all of a sudden,” Tango says. 

“You’re deflecting,” Whiskey elbows him, “How’d it happen.”

“This isn’t me giving you deets.”

“I’m not asking for them and I do not want them,” Whiskey says. 

“Fine,” Tango says, “We hung out a bunch at the beginning of her semester. I was studying so I could take the teacher’s college test and she had a massive paper to do, so we hung out at the library and she came here because her roommate is annoying and belts showtunes in the middle of the night. And I just let her sleep here so she didn’t die of exhaustion. I dunno, I guess around October we started actually hooking up and stuff. And yeah. We’re friends but we… yeah.”

“You’ve been gone on her since sophomore year, why not just tell her?” Whiskey asks

“I don’t know if she wants that,” Tango says, “She’s busy as hell, man, and I don’t wanna like, throw a wrench in things.”

“But you’re basically in love with her?”

“Yeah,” Tango admits. 

“So this is torture for you?”

“Uh, yeah,” Tango says, “Like, I want to tell her, obviously, but I don’t want to fuck up her academic groove or whatever.”

Whiskey laughs at the phrase, but not at the situation. 

“Would it be weird? Like for all of us as friends?” Tango asks. 

“Why the fuck would it be weird?” Whiskey asks. 

“Dunno. Just might.”

“Well, for my money, I think you should tell her.”

“I’ll think about it,” Tango says. 

Whiskey nods. 

“What about you?” Tango asks, “Are things still weird with Kent?”

Whiskey shakes his head, “Nah,” he says trying to be casual, “Let’s get lunch, I’m buying.”

He slaps Tango on the knee and then gets up and grabs his jacket before Tango can ask anymore questions. 

They end up getting Chipotle and they meet Ford and they see a movie and hang out. On Wednesday, Whiskey and Tango sit on the floor playing Fortnite while Ford sits on Tango’s bed and works on a research paper. On Thursday at about 2 a.m. Ford lets out a cheer as she submits a paper and Tango brings out a bottle of tequila, slightly more fancy than they’d drank in their undergraduate, but still shitty. And they toast to a submitted paper and then promptly pass out. Tango starts the night on the couch, but when Whiskey wakes up, he’s on the air mattress, with Ford curled up in his arms. 

Whiskey smiles when he sees it. He gets up earlier than they do and goes for a run. He wants to stay on top of conditioning so he doesn’t get punched in the face by Becks and a brutal practice after bye week. 

He picks up coffee on his way back to Tango’s place. Ford is sitting at Tango’s table while Tango digs through his cupboard for a box of cereal. 

“Grabbed coffee!” Whiskey says. He sets it down on the table in front of Ford. She grabs her caramel iced coffee immediately. 

“Thank you,” she says. She looks like a whole new person after submitting the paper. 

Whiskey grabs his hot coffee with vanilla creamer and leave’s Tango’s black coffee in the paper tray. 

That afternoon, they decide to go skating at the pond. Whiskey keeps looking over at Tango and Ford for some sign that Tango’s said something. He doesn’t see anything. Ford’s still a little wobbly in her skates but she’s getting undoubtedly better. Then they get dinner on Whiskey’s dime. They stay up to watch another movie. Whiskey looks over just before the credits start to roll and he sees Ford asleep with Tango’s arm around her. Whiskey looks Tango in the eyes. 

“C’mon,” he mouths at Tango. 

Tango shakes his head, and somehow, he’s figured out how to flip someone off with his eyes. 

Whiskey just smirks. He wakes up on the couch early in the morning, none of them bothered walking the four feet to Tango’s sleeping area. 

“Mmm,” Ford groans, “Morning.”

“Morning,” Whiskey says. 

Whiskey avoids having to watch the skills competition in Calgary because Samwell is playing at home and Whiskey, Tango and Ford decide to go. They go early so they can say hi to the waffles. 

Hops gives Whiskey a fistbump, proudly shows him the Samwell wall of fame where his jersey is still in the centre. 

“Boys!” Whiskey hears Hall’s voice coming from slightly up the concourse. 

Whiskey has his hands in his pockets, he turns around and smiles. 

“Hey, coach,” Whiskey holds out his hand, Hall shakes it. 

“It’s been too long, Whisk, you have to come out more often.”

Whiskey nods, “Sorry, coach. Been busy.”

“Ah, I get it, I’m just giving you a hard time.”

Hops and Tango get distracted by a conversation and they head into the locker room. 

“Couldn’t believe it when Hops told me,” Hally said, “That you and Zimmermann made a bet,” he chuckles. 

Whiskey joins in, a dry laugh, “That was a good game.”

“Yeah,” Murray says, “One hell of a play in overtime.”

“Thanks,” Whiskey says. 

“How’s Quebec working out?” Hall asks. 

“I’m uh, I’m having a lot of fun this season,” Whiskey says. 

Hall’s face brightens, “good, that’s really good to hear. Jack said the same thing when he got to Providence. You’ve earned the fun.”

“I think so,” Whiskey says. 

“Well, I owe the boys a pregame speech, enjoy the game.”

“Thanks,” Whiskey says. 

They find seats near the middle of the rink. Whiskey realizes that it’s been way too long since he’s just sad down and watched a hockey game, and he realizes that he misses the ice here, the windows and the atmosphere. He watches Samwell win, and he’s never been in the stands as they erupted for a Samwell goal, it’s a new feeling, not bad, just strange. 

They get up after the third, Samwell wins 6-3, and Whiskey turns to Ford and Tango. 

“I want to talk to the coaches, I’ll meet you guys back at Tango’s.”

“Sure,” Ford says, and she stands up on her tip-toes and kisses Whiskey on the cheek, “T, can you grab my back from the locker room, I’ll be right down,” she says. 

When Tango’s out of earshot, she grabs Whiskey’s hand and squeezes it, “I didn’t realize,” she says. 

“What?” Whiskey asks. 

“Don’t play dumb,” she says. 

“I’m not playing dumb, I actually am dumb, so like, spell it out for me.”

“Tango told me this afternoon while you were at the gym. That he wants to actually date,” Ford says, “And I didn’t think that was a thing we could do until he said it. And I know you have something to do with it,” Ford says. 

Whiskey just shrugs, “You like each other, s’obvious. S’obvious that just hooking up was like, not a fun time for either of you.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Ford says, “You’re smarter than you think.”

Whiskey just laughs, “You have no idea.”

“Anyway, tell the Hall and Murray I said hi.”

“Will do,” Whiskey says. 

He knocks on the coaches’ door without thinking about what he’s going to say next. 

Hall opens the door with a furrowed brow. 

“Connor,” he says, “pleasantly surprised.”

Whiskey just blurts it out, “Can I use the ice?”

“Oh?” Hall says, “Old habits die hard, ah?”

Whiskey laughs. 

Hall hands him a key, “Don’t wear yourself out.”

“Actually,” Whiskey says, “I was hoping you’d join me.”

There’s a twinkle in Hall’s eyes as he agrees. 

“Let me grab my skates, I’ll meet you there.”

Whiskey borrows a pair of skates in his size from the equipment room and laces them up so that they’re at least semi-comfortable. 

For a while, he and Hall just skate laps quietly. 

“Took for granted how nice Samwell is,” Whiskey says when they pass the window. 

Hall nods. 

“Detroit’s ugly.” 

Hall nods, “As hell,” he confirms. 

They’re quiet for a while longer, and then Whiskey finally says, 

“Why did you always let me stay late?”

Hall shakes his head slightly. 

“I knew it wasn’t the best thing for you, but you needed something. There were worse things you could have done than skating ‘til you got new blisters.”

“You knew?”

“That you weren’t okay?” Hall says, “Yeah, I’m your coach and you’re easier to read than a picture book,” Hall says. 

Whiskey laughs. 

“You always found your way,” Hall says, “You’ve got good people. But I always made sure to keep an eye on you after you asked me for the keys.”

Whiskey looks down at his skates, sheepish. 

“And since you no longer practice with me four times a week, I’m just gonna have to trust that you’ll find your way again.”

“Yeah, thanks, coach,” Whiskey says. 

“You always did,” Hall repeats.

When Whiskey gets off the ice, he sits at the bench on his own for a while. He looks down at his phone and he sees a video come up on the NHL app. Kent broke the accuracy competition record, because of course he did. He’s smiling in the video, easy and effortless with his helmet off and his hair sticking out. And he gets chirped by Jack when he’s done and he’s still smiling. 

Yeah, he’s probably better off without Whiskey anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which whiskey learns many many many lessons from people he loves and trusts very very much, and yet,,,, he applies absolutely none of it to his own life, it'll click soon (we hope) we've got a kent chapter coming up next, and all i can say is, soon,,, o.o


	33. Unlucky me, aware of the pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from a song by tikkle me

Kent is not okay. The hotel room in Calgary sees more of his tears than anywhere else. He’s fine at first, honestly. They did press yesterday, he filmed some stuff, signed some more stuff and then he went to the skills comp, and then he went out with his friends, and he had one drink. It wasn’t even a strong drink. Not enough to make him cry alone in a hotel room. 

He just buries his face in his pillow and he wants to disappear. He wants to stop thinking about Whiskey but he also never wants to forget Whiskey and he’s worried that he’s forgetting all the good parts. There’s a knock on his door and Kent would rather die than open it. He mumbles into his pillow. 

“Parse,” Bobby’s voice through the door. 

Kent doesn’t answer. 

“Parse.”

Nothing. 

“Parse.”

Nothing. 

“I have your phone, dipshit,” Bobby says. 

So Kent rolls out of bed and shuffles to the door. He opens it, well aware that he looks like absolute trash. 

Bobby holds his hand out, and Kent sees Bobby’s concern. He snatches his phone. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles and he starts to close his door. 

Bobby shoves his hand in between the door and the doorframe. 

“Parse,” he says, “You good?”

Kent just shrugs. He gives up trying to close the door immediately and Bobby forces his way in. 

“You good?” Bobby repeats. 

“Please just leave me alone,” Kent says. 

“No,” Bobby says, “What’s going on man, what’s your problem?”

Kent crosses his arms, he grits his teeth. 

“He lives in your basement,” Kent says. He’s tired, he’s cried so much that he just wants to go to sleep and he doesn’t want anyone, least of all Bobby, worrying about him. 

Bobby scrunches up his eyebrows, “Are we still on this?” Bobby puts on an incredibly disapproving dad voice, “You can’t keep this up Parse. I have done my due diligence, and he’s a good fucking guy, you can’t just hate him for no reason.”

“I don’t hate him,” Kent mumbles. 

“You sure fuckin’ act like it,” Bobby says. 

“It’s not…” Kent says. 

“I thought it was getting better, we talked about it, but now you’re back to not even acknowledging that he exists,” Bobby says, “You hate him, clearly.”

Kent shakes his head. 

“I don’t,” Kent grits his teeth. 

“You do! Open your eyes!”

“I don’t,” Kent clenches his fists.

“You do!”

“I’m in love with him, okay?” Kent finally blurts it out. 

And Bobby’s face falls, and it’s silent.

Kent looks at Bobby and Bobby looks at Kent and they’re staring at each other, trying to figure out what they’re supposed to say now. There are tears now, not sobbing, just leaking out of his face, sniffling. 

“Parse,” Bobby says, “What?”

And Kent bites his lip and shakes his head, “I can’t, I’m not… I can’t… he doesn’t,” he inhales and sits down on the edge of his bed and puts his head in his hands. He said it. Out loud. Bobby knows. He swallows hard and shakes his head. 

“Parse…You and Whisk…What...”

“No,” Kent says, and he just keeps repeating that, 

No

No

No

No

No. 

Things go blurry and Kent hears Bobby on the phone and he shakes his head over and over again and when he looks up, Jack is standing in front of him. 

Bobby is standing back. 

“Hey, Kenny,” Jack says, his voice isn’t patronizing, just level, “I grabbed you a bottle of water,” he puts it in Kent’s hands. 

Kent takes it. He takes a long gulp. 

“I had sex with him,” Kent says. 

“Well, yeah,” Jack says. 

“No,” Kent says, “Like… we’ve been… since January.”

“Oh.” Jack says. 

Kent nods. 

Bobby’s still standing behind him with wide eyes and Kent feels like a terrible person for saying this in front of the guy Whiskey lives with, but he can’t not say it now. 

“Have you been talking?” Jack asks. 

“Heh,” Kent says, “No.”

“I’m lost,” Jack says. 

“You’re dumb,” Kent says, “On the road, he comes to my room, and we have sex and then he leaves. No strings. It’s what he wants.”

“I doubt that,” Jack says. 

“It’s not my fault you’re already practically married. It’s casual,” Kent says. 

“Parse,” Bobby says, “Was Whiskey the guy you broke up with in the fall?” 

“He broke up with me.”

Jack’s brows are furrowed, looking at Kent and then looking at Bobby. 

“I don’t want to,” Kent says, “You’re friends, I don’t want to make it weird.”

“I don’t care about that right now,” Bobby says, arms crossed, “Can you… what happened. You were having a bad time that day.”

Kent sighs, “I was… it wasn’t great. Uh. I’ve got issues,” Kent shrugs. 

Jack laughs. 

“Fuck off,” Kent smiles a little. 

Jack just shrugs, “We all do.”

“Yeah,” Kent says,“But uh, both of our issues got kind of bad at the exact same time and I was worried all the time so uh… we broke up.”

“Okay,” Bobby says, “I just need to know… did he do anything to you?”

Kent shakes his head, “We fought.”

Jack sighs. 

“So yeah,” Kent says, “Despite my best efforts, I still fucking love him. But I can’t just go crawling back. He’s doing good, he’s better without me in his life.”

“Kenny,” Jack says, “He’s a disaster.”

“He’s good sometimes,” Bobby says, “But not always.”

“Disaster,” Jack says. 

“I just want to fix everything,” Kent says. 

“Classic Kent Parson,” Jack says. He sits on the bed next to Kent and puts his hand on Kent’s shoulder, “you know that you can’t right?” Jack says. 

Kent sighs, he nods. 

“You both went through a really fucked up thing. He owes you an apology.”

“I owe him one,” Kent says. 

“Yeah, maybe,” Jack says. 

It would be almost funny, the way Bobby is standing, stiff as a board, because he doesn’t actually know what’s going on here. 

Kent just laughs. 

“I know one thing for sure, you’re lying if you think what you’re doing with him is no strings attached.”

Kent nods, he takes another breath and another sip of his water and then he groans.

“Keep it in your pants and talk like adults,” Jack says. 

That makes Bobby snort. 

“You can’t tell him about this,” Kent says, suddenly filled with urgency. 

Bobby nods, “Okay. But you have to.”

Kent groans, but he nods, “I will.”

“Keep it in your pants,” Jack repeats. 

So Kent nods like he’s a preschooler. 

“And talk like adults.”

Kent nods again. 

“I’ll see you at the game Kenny, I’m tired.”

“Mhmm, tired,” Kent teases, “Tell Bittle I said hi.”

“I will not do that,” Jack says. 

It’s just Bobby and Kent alone in the room. 

“Thanks for my phone,” Kent says. 

“You left it on the bar.”

“Right,” Kent says. 

“So uh, Whisk, huh?”

“Dude, I really need you to know, he can’t know that you know. Not this. He’s not… he’s private, he keeps his business his business and he’s not out and as much as I’m still kind of pissed at him, I’m not that big of a dick.”

Bobby shakes his head, “He told me, not about you, that he’s bi, though.”

“Oh,” Kent says, and he perks up at that, maybe too obviously, “Oh,” he says. 

“How long were you two…”

“Three years,” Kent says, “New years was supposed to be our anniversary, which is ironic because that’s when we… yeah. I’m really bad at casual.”

“Apparently,” Bobby says. 

“I don’t know how not to make this weird,” Kent says. 

“Life’s weird sometimes,” Bobby shrugs, “We’ll live.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. He finishes the water bottle that Jack had handed him. 

“You should sleep,” Bobby says, “If we wanna kick ass tomorrow.”

“First all-star game on a team with Jack,” Kent says, “That’ll be fun.”

Th Atlantic Division team is supposed to start the day playing the Pacific division. Nobody tries their hardest, but Kent still wants to sleep at least a little, so he nods. 

“Good night,”

“Good night, Parse.”

Kent goes to sleep, still sad, but mostly grateful that Bobby brought him his phone, grateful that he’d been there when he started to slide. He’s grateful that he has more than one friend now, and when one friend doesn’t know how to handle something, there’s another friend to call who does. 

Kent puts on his suit and meets Bobby, Jack and Snowy in the hotel lobby. He lets his ego grow just a little when he mentally declares himself the best dressed among them. He does his best to soak up the attention, but all he can think about is how he’s possibly going to talk things out with Whiskey. Halfway there, he settles on a decision. He just won’t. Bobby’s not going to ask, he can’t do anything if he doesn’t. So what does it matter.

Jack is the captain of the Pacific team, which is fair enough, Kent would have voted for him too if he got a say.

“You still remember all those passing drills we used to run?” Jack asks, cheeky during the faceoff. 

“I think I can dust off a few,” Kent smirks. 

Kent likes this kind of attention, the kind that comes with being a pain in the ass. The kind that comes when the other team is dreading playing him. He likes the feeling of knowing someone wants to punch him in the face. Not the feeling of actually getting punched in the face, that one is less fun, but knowing he’s just annoying to make someone consider it? That’s just electrifying. So Kent chirps and he tries just a little bit harder than everyone else, enough that they get angry at him for forcing them to play defense and he laughs when someone misses the net. 

But with all that being said, Kent knows that he wasn’t supposed to get hurt. He gets his stick tangled somewhere where it shouldn’t be after a hit and he twists the wrong way to get out from underneath the other guy, and then he can’t get up, and then he’s grimacing, fists clenched, head down on the ice, and then Jack is helping him skate to the bench and the All-Star game just got a whole lot less fun because he can’t put weight on his left foot and he feels like he wants to throw up. He leans on a trainer as he limps down the tunnel trying very hard not to cry where anyone might see. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i do injure them whenever i need some more drama in the world, it's just how it goes. anyway i love jack and i love bitty too


	34. I couldn't stop if I tried loving you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from quitting you by the arkells

Whiskey counts four joggers, three dog walkers and two elderly couples before he sees her car. Kent’s sitting shotgun. He looks miserable, which Whiskey can’t say he blames him for. Whiskey watches Kent turn his head. He sees Kent look at him, sees his shoulders heave as he appears to sigh. 

Whiskey stands when he hears Becks’ door open and shut. She comes around to the passenger side and opens Kent’s door. He doesn’t move and Becks pulls crutches from the backseat and hands them to Kent. 

And Oh. Oh fuck. 

Kent looks tired, Whiskey can see it in the way he gets up and props himself up with his crutches. Whiskey’s tired too. He took the first flight from Boston, slept at Bobby’s house and showed up here first thing in the morning. 

Kent does not ask what Whiskey’s doing standing on his front porch steps, instead he looks at Whiskey, and looks away, back at Becks. 

Whiskey watches Becks pick up Kent’s duffel bag and a dry cleaning bag. Kent tries to grab something but she slaps his arm away. 

“Morning, Whisk,” Becks says, “It’s early.”

“Uh, yeah,” Whiskey says. 

“Get the door for me, would you,” she throws a house key at him. 

Whiskey snatches it out of the air and walks up the front steps and unlocks Kent’s front door. He holds the door open as Becks helps Kent in and then follows him inside. Whiskey closes the door behind them. He stands in the doorway, he looks at the floor. 

This is Kent’s space, Whiskey’s never been inside, and technically, he doesn’t think he’s been invited in. Becks sets Kent’s things in the middle of the floor. 

“Stay off the foot, Parson,” Whiskey hears Becks demand. 

“Yes ma’am,” Kent says. 

Whiskey steals a glance and sees Kent standing, crutches under his armpits in the middle of the room. 

“Well, I’ll leave you two to it,” Becks says. 

“I-'' Whiskey says, it sounds like a croak, he doesn’t know what he’s going to say. He doesn’t say anything. 

“Sure,” Kent says.

That means something, right? Kent’s not telling him to fuck off. That’s something. 

Whiskey waits until Becks closes the door behind him to look up at Kent. 

“I wanted to see if you were okay,” Whiskey finally chokes out.

He looks at Kent, he’s standing uncomfortably, he looks like he wants to shift his weight but he can’t because he’s wearing one of those air casts on his injured foot. 

“You should sit,” Whiskey says and he gestures to the couch. He’s doing his best not to intrude. Every time he looks at something he feels like he’s intruding. 

Kent just grimaces, he looks like he’s about to say no, but he relents. He sits down. Whiskey sees him wince and turn to the side, the way he does when he has a bruise from a hard hit. 

“Let me get you some ice,” Whiskey says. 

Kent just nods. He points to the kitchen, which is separated from the living room by a wall with an open double door frame. 

Whiskey walks into the kitchen. He doesn’t dwell on anything he sees, just opens the freezer and finds an ice cube tray. He finds some plastic wrap in a drawer beside the fridge and wraps a handful of ice in it. He opens another drawer, which is full of cutlery, he quickly closes it until he finds a dishtowel. He wraps the ice in the dish towel and leaves the kitchen for the living room. 

“Here,” Whiskey hands Kent the ice. 

Kent takes it without looking Whiskey in the eyes. 

‘’I can uh,” Whiskey says, “Yeah, you’re okay, so, I’ll just… I can go.”

Kent sighs, “don’t.”

So Whiskey stays where he stands. 

“Stay,” Kent says, his voice is scratchy. Like he’s been crying, “I could use the company,” and then a small smile, “Sit down.”

Whiskey obliges, he sits on the edge of an armchair, leans forward. 

“So what’s the damage?” he gestures to Kent’s foot. 

“A month, high ankle sprain,” he says. 

Whiskey lets out a low whistle. 

“Might just be the first asshole to get seriously hurt at the all star game.”

“It looked pretty bad.”

“It was an accident,” Kent says, “guy didn’t mean to.”

“Right,’ Whiskey. says, “Yeah it looked, just… unfortunate.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. 

The camera had shown Kent limping down the tunnel. Whiskey saw the tough grimace on his face, the way he was so clearly holding it in. 

“You should eat,” Whiskey says. 

Kent shrugs. 

“I’ll cook.”

Kent lets out a sharp laugh, “You’ll do no such thing. Ankle’s bad enough, I’m not explaining a house fire to Becks.”

“I’m not that bad,” Whiskey mumbles. 

“There’s a box of protein bars beside the fridge,” Kent says, “Get me that.”

Whiskey nods. He walks back into the kitchen. This time he lets himself look, just a little. Kent has a houseplant on the kitchen table, it’s dead. He’s clean, no dishes in the sink, the counters aren’t sticky. Whiskey grabs the whole box and returns to the living room. He sets them in front of Kent. Kent grabs one and then gestures at Whiskey. 

“You eat too.”Kent says. 

Kent wolfs down a protein bar and then yawns. 

“I’m gonna pass out,” Kent says, “You can stay if you want. I know Bobby’s house is empty right now. I won’t make you leave.”

Whiskey nods wordlessly as Kent picks up his crutches and hoists himself up. Whiskey follows half a step behind him and carries his things into the bedroom for Kent. He stops at the doorway and sets Kent’s things down for him. 

“If you need anything…” Whiskey says, “I’ll do it so you can stay off your feet.”

Kent nods and then yawns again, ‘I’ll let you know. “

And then Whiskey leaves Kent’s bedroom. He doesn’t get those moments with Kent anymore. Doesn’t get to watch him get ready to take a nap, doesn’t get to lay next to him during the nap. 

Kent falls asleep and Whiskey decides to go get dinner for them. He gets food from a takeout place he knows most of the team likes. He orders what he know Kent would like and he drives back to Kent’s neighbourhood. He passes family houses, driveways with basketball nets at the end, front lawns with snowmen. Something in his chest tugs at him. 

He opens the door with the key Becks threw at him. He’s quiet, because Kent’s asleep and because it’s not his house. He sets the food on the living room table and sits on the couch. He looks at his phone until Kent shuffles out into the living room. He’s changed into sweatpants and a hoodie that’s too big. 

“You’re still here,” he says, he sounds surprised. 

“I got food,” Whiskey says and he points at the takeout containers on the table. 

“Shit,” Kent says, “Thanks.”

“Chicken katsu, white rice, and vegetable tempura,” Whiskey says, “Is that good for you?”

“That’s my exact order, actually,” Kent mumbles. 

Whiskey shrugs softly and hands Kent the takeout containers. 

“You should put your foot up,” Whiskey says. 

“It’s fine,” Kent says. 

“No, let me,” Whiskey says. 

He piles some throw pillows on top of a couch cushion in front of Kent, he give half a smile, proud of his work. Kent shakes his head good naturedly and sits down. He puts his foot on top of the pillow and sighs. 

“Thanks,’ he says. He grabs his food and some chopsticks and sighs, “We can watch something,” Kent says, “It’s quiet.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey agrees. 

He grabs Kent’s remote and turns on the TV. They settle on watching Sunday afternoon football that neither one of them particularly cares about. Kit wanders into the living room and nuzzles against his ankle. 

“She wants you to feed her,” Kent says. 

Whiskey nods. He sets down his takeout and follows Kit into the kitchen. She sits in front of the cupboard where he now assumes her food is. He opens her food and drops it into her dish. He scratches her behind the ears. She ignores her food and nuzzles up to him again. 

He smiles and refills her water dish. She follows him. She mews when he leaves the kitchen but he ignores her. He misses her. He misses Kent’s kitchen. He misses Kent not looking at him like he’s afraid of something.

“I’m gonna head out now,” Whiskey says. 

“Okay,” Kent answers. 

Whiskey keeps the spare keys that Becks gave him. 

He drives home with the radio blasting so he doesn’t have to listen to his own pathetic thoughts. 

He goes back in the morning, breakfast burritos in hand. He’s just being a good teammate, a good friend. There’s nothing more than that. It has nothing to do with the pull Whiskey feels in his chest, nothing to do with the words he can feel bubbling in his just, nothing to do with the strange excitement he feels at the prospect of getting to see Kent. 

He unlocks Kent’s front door. 

“It’s me!” he shouts, “I brought breakfast.”

“I’m in the kitchen,” Kent yells. 

Whiskey walks into the kitchen, he’s standing in front of the sink, leaning against the counter on one foot trying to wash dishes. 

“Sit down,” Whiskey says, and he pulls out one of Kent’s kitchen chairs, “I’ll do those,” Whiskey says. 

Kent sighs. He sits down. Whiskey pulls out another chair and Kent props his leg up. Whiskey hands Kent a breakfast burrito and starts to do his dishes.

“You don’t have to do this,” Kent says, “I can take care of it.”

‘It’s no big deal,” Whiskey shrugs. 

Kent takes a bite of his burrito and sighs. 

They’re quiet for a minute. Whiskey inhales the smell of Kent’s dish soap, he’s used the same kind for as long as Whiskey has known him. 

“Why are you here,” Kent finally says. 

“I brought breakfast,” Whiskey says. 

“That’s not-” Kent cuts himself off, “Never mind.”

Whiskey doesn’t leave after breakfast. He convinces himself that Kent needs help unpacking, which just ends up being Whiskey dumping the contents of Kent’s suitcase into his dirty laundry hamper. 

Whiskey goes out to get lunch, and again for dinner. And it’s only when they’re eating chicken parm that Kent sets down and sighs. 

“You’re not just here to bring me food,” Kent says. 

“I-” Whiskey starts, “Don’t know,” he trails off. 

Kent shakes his head. 

“I saw you on TV, hurt, and my instinct was just to go to you. To make sure you were okay. To take care of you,” he whispers the last part, “Seeing you hurt it just… it … you didn’t deserve to get hurt and you deserve someone to take care of you at least at first.”

“Don’t say stuff like that,” Kent whispers, “Not if you’re just going to leave again,” Kent says. 

Whiskey’s eyes go wide, “I won’t leave.”

“You do,” Kent says, “You wash your hands and you leave.”

And Whiskey realizes that Kent’s talking about those nights in hotel rooms. 

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” Whiskey says. 

“Why would I want you to leave?” Kent asks. 

“Why would you want me to stay?”

They both know the answer. 

“We fumbled the ball with the whole communication thing,” Kent says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey agrees. 

“Why did we…”

“Why did we fuck?” Whiskey asks. 

“Yeah,” Kent says, “Why did we do that?”

And Whiskey decides there’s nothing to lose by telling the truth.

“I wanted to be close to you,” Whiskey says, “Again.”

Kent looks away, like continuing to look would be physically painful. 

“You can’t just say stuff like that,” Kent says. 

“It’s the truth,” Whiskey says. 

“You’re the one who ended this,” Kent says and Whiskey can hear the tears coming. He can feel his own, “I-” he chokes. 

Whiskey doesn’t have words. He feels like he doesn’t deserve them. 

“And I spent so long trying to be okay with it. Because you looked like you were doing so good. You got called up and you stayed up and you were breaking Red Wings rookie records right after we broke up,” Kent says. 

“You think I played better because you weren’t in my life anymore?”

“What else was I supposed to think?”

“I… don’t know.”

“All I want are good things for you,” Kent says. 

“You’d have a right to want me dead in a ditch,” Whiskey says. 

Kent laughs, “I could never.”

“I wasn’t…” Whiskey says, “It’s not your fault but I wasn’t okay before or after we broke up.”

Kent sighs. 

“I don’t take the painkillers anymore,” Whiskey says, “Or the shots, those are even worse for you apparently. I was just so willing to do anything to keep playing that it didn’t matter if I hurt myself in the process. Hurting you wasn’t on purpose.”

“Watching you hurt yourself hurt me.”

Whiskey takes a shaky breath, “Fuck,” and he puts his head in his hands. 

“I should’ve… we should’ve… I don’t know what we should have done but we should have done something.”

“I hurt you,” Whiskey says, “I’m so fucking sorry,” he says, “I shouldn’t have… the things I said, the way I shut down. It wasn’t right.”

“You were right about some things. I was wrong to think that what happened with Jack wasn’t affecting the way I was thinking.”

“I didn’t need to be a dick about it.”

“Fair. I didn’t get why you were doing what you were doing. I couldn’t understand it. I should have tried harder. I love you. I should have tried harder.”

The both freeze, they realize the present tense of the verb and Kent’s face turns pink. 

“I still love you,” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah,” Kent nods. 

The tears come for both of them, “I’m sorry it took an injury to get me to admit it.”

“Me too,” Kent says through a teary smile. 

Whiskey, without thinking, slides out of his chair and onto the floor and he stands on his knees in front of Kent and they’re eye to eye and Kent looks at him and Whiskey looks right back. 

“If you kiss me, I’ll kiss you back,” Whiskey says. 

There’s not even a second to breath between the end of the sentence and when Kent’s lips are on his. It starts off crashing and bruising, and tongues knocking into each other. And then Kent’s hand wraps around the back of Whiskey’s neck and Whiskey puts his hand on the side of Kent’s face and he can feel a small smile on Kent’s lips and he rubs his thumb over Kent’s stubble and he sighs. 

“I can’t stop looking at you. When I cam here I thought I could try. Because this was a shot and everyone here believed in me, and it was perfect except for the fact that you were here because it was easy to pretend that I wasn’t still in love with you, but then we were in the same room and I couldn’t stop looking,” Whiskey says. He still has his hand on Kent’s face, “You’re so beautiful.”

“I couldn’t look,” Kent says, “At you. Because I knew every time I did I’d have to remember how I loved you. How I still do. And I’d see you with Bobby and the girls and you’re doing so good and you’re still playing well and I thought you got better because we broke up”

Whiskey presses his lips gently to Kent’s. 

“No,’ Whiskey says, “I was a mess because we broke up. Everything made sense and then all of a sudden nothing made sense. It’s not you… It wasn’t you. I _am_ doing better now,” Whiskey says, “But you not being in my life makes it worse not better.”

“I just… that’s hard for me to believe.”

“How can I get you to believe it?”

“I don’t know,” Kent says. 

“Don’t look away,” Whiskey says. 

“What?”

“Look at me, and talk to me and be in the same room as me and practice on the same line as me and I’ll prove that you don’t make me worse. Having Bobby and his kids, and having a team who looked out for each other and friends who decided to stop listening to my bullshit, that’s what helped me, not breaking up with you.”

“I wanted to call you,” Kent says, “To tell you how proud I was that you were getting surgery for your shoulder.”

“I couldn’t keep doing what I was doing.”

“It was the right thing to do.”

“They traded me over it.”

“They’re idiots.”

Whiskey laughs, takes a second to wipe the tears away and to slide onto the couch beside Kent. He slips his hand into Kent’s and Kent rests his head on Whiskey’s shoulder. 

“There were so many times I wanted to talk to you and I couldn’t.”

“Me too,” Kent says. 

“Then I guess we have a lot to talk about now,” Whiskey says. 

“I think so,” Kent says and he squeezes Whiskey’s hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... welllllll whaddya think,,,, they talked!
> 
> (becks absolutely knows what the fuck is up)


	35. I'll come around if you ever want to be in love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from if you ever want to be in love by james bay

____

“Where were you last night?” Bobby asks over coffee in the car in the morning in the morning, “You weren’t here when we got home from the airport.”

Whiskey tries not to choke on his coffee as he looks up at Bobby over the centre console. 

“Not that it’s my business, Piper just wanted to show you the jersey we got all the goalies to sign.”

“I was actually with Parse,” Whiskey says, he doesn’t look Bobby in the eye. 

Bobby makes a noise that sounds like he’s clearing his throat. 

“Just helping out because he got hurt,” Whiskey says, “You know. Doing the dishes and grabbing food that kind of stuff. Talking,” he mumbles the last part. 

“Good. Cool. Good. That was very cool of you.”

Whiskey goes home with Bobby after practice and he says hi to Piper and lets her gush about the All-Star game and show him her signed jersey and say how cool everything was. He has a shower and changes. And then he goes to Kent’s and he picks up food on the way there. He knocks before he unlocks the front door with the spare key he still hasn’t given back. Kent is sitting on the couch with his foot propped up on the table, he looks like he’s about to get up. 

“Stay there,” Whiskey says. 

Kent relaxes back into the couch. 

“Eat something that’s not a protein shake.”

Kent sighs. 

“Okay,” he says. 

Whiskey sets down some shrimp alfredo and a salad in front of Kent. Kit hops up onto the couch beside Kent and Kent feeds her a piece of shrimp without even scolding her. He’s gotten soft. 

“How was practice?” Kent asks. 

“Fine,” Whiskey says, “Missed you, the whole team did, obviously,” Whiskey says. 

Kent just waves his hand dismissively. 

“You’re a leader,” Whiskey says, “Mouse follows you like a shadow. Poor guy didn’t know what to do with himself.”

Kent rolls his eyes. 

Whiskey sits with Kent for a couple hours, they watch a Raptors game, mostly in silence, Kent talking about the game once in a while. And then Kent says he should head to bed. So Whiskey cleans up the dishes and Kent hobbles into the bedroom to get changed. When Whiskey turns around, Kent is standing in front of the steps that lead to his bedroom. Kent bought a split level, the living room, dining room and kitchen are on one level, and then there are three steps that lead up to a hallways where Kent’s bedroom, a guest bathroom, an office, and a bathroom are. There’s a basement too, but Whiskey has never been down there. It’s smaller, more modest than Kent’s budget requires. Whiskey likes it. 

Kent’s wearing pajama pants and a hoodie. A hoodie that Whiskey recognizes, because it’s his. He feels his chest getting tight, is breath hitches. His clothes were always too big on Kent and the Arizona Cardinals hoodie that he apparently kept is no exception. 

“That’s my sweater,” Whiskey says. 

Kent doesn’t look surprised, “Do you want it back?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey shakes his head, “Red looks good on you.”

He takes a step forward. The sleeves are long enough that they cover Kent’s hands. Whiskey slips one hand into the right sleeve and grabs Kent’s hand and squeezes. Kent still has trouble looking Whiskey in the eye. He’s looking down. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Whiskey’s shoulder. And then he looks up, and he looks Whiskey in the eye, and then Whiskey leans down to kiss him. He feels Kent’s body language change and he opens up into him. Whiskey’s careful not to push too hard, because Kent’s on crutches and he’s standing up. He puts his hand on the small of Kent’s back so he won’t lose his balance. They could have sex. Either one of them could steer it in that direction. They don’t. Whiskey pulls away from Kent’s lips and kisses him on the cheek. 

“I’ll come by tomorrow before the game,” Whiskey says. 

Kent nods. 

“I’ll see you then.”

Everyone’s asleep by the time Whiskey gets back to Bobby’s house, so he just goes straight to bed. He falls asleep still feeling Kent’s lips pressed against his. 

He wakes up to the sound of his alarm. 5:30, like always. He gets up, gets dressed and goes for his run. The ice is melting, but Whiskey knows better than to think that means Whiskey is over. It just means the ice is going to be back and worse than ever in about two weeks before the final snowstorm of the winter. He’s determined that he makes today a good day. It’s been nearly a dozen games with the Nordiques and he still hasn’t scored. It could be tonight, it could be tomorrow. It could be any time, but he needs it to happen one of these days. 

He’s trying not to be so hard on himself, but there’s still the reality, he needs to contribute if he wants to stay on this team. It’ll happen. He runs just a little bit faster.. When he gets back, Piper is sitting in the kitchen, she’s in her pajamas doing homework that Emily told her to do last night. 

“Morning,” Whiskey says, he grabs a protein shake from the fridge. 

“How come you keep going to Parson’s house?” Piper asks, “You weren’t here when I got home from school yesterday.”

Whiskey pauses between gulps of the drink, “He’s hurt,” Whiskey says, “I’m just helping out.”

“My dad could help out.”

Whiskey chuckles, “I’m sure he will, now do your homework,” he messes up her hair and she swats him away. He texts Tango and Ford from his bedroom. 

**Whiskey:** **just so you guys know.**

 **Whiskey:** **I talked to Kent.**

 **Whiskey:** **It’s not a big deal but I wanted to tell you because i think maybe it’s something. Good something.**

 **Tango:** **like for real????**

 **Ford:** **holy fuck finally**

 **Tango:** **When? Where? How? Why?**

 **Whiskey:** **Sunday night. Kent’s house. With our words. Because we’re grown ups**

 **Ford:** **Grown ups is a stretch**

 **Tango:** **Was it because of the injury?**

 **Whiskey:** **Kind of i just showed up at his house and eventually we realized we had things to say**

 **Tango:** **happy for u bro!**

He shoots a message off to Kent. 

**Whiskey:** **any requests for lunch**

 **Kent:** **A new ankle**

 **Whiskey:** **Salmon it is then :)**

Whiskey shows up with rice and salmon and more steamed vegetables. He plans to go straight to the game from Kent’s house, so he’s wearing his game day suit and He knocks and unlocks the door like he usually does. Kent’s on his couch again, he’s still wearing his pajamas. 

“I feel like a vegetable,” he says, “Fuck being hurt.”

Whiskey nods, he remembers his stupid concussion in Detroit. 

“Eat a vegetable and you might feel better,” Whiskey says. 

He bends down to pet Kit who purrs between his legs. 

“Thank you,” Kent says and he finally relents. 

“Is that a new suit?”

Whiskey looks down and nods. 

“You look good,” Kent mumbles. 

“Thanks,” Whiskey says. 

Kent eats half his lunch and they watch an episode of New Girl, which apparently Kent has been watching to keep himself entertained. Kent convinces Whiskey to sit next to him. And then Whiskey kisses him, and Kent wants him to, because he leans against the arm of the couch. It’s an awkward position with the way Kent has to sit because of his cast, but Whiskey makes it work, angling the kiss, opening his mouth up to Kent’s. He runs his hands through Kent’s hair, gently moves his hand up Kent’s side, resting on his shoulder and he wants so much he doesn’t know if he could put a name to it. 

And then he hears bells. A ringing, and a vibrating in his jacket pocket. 

“Fuck,” he says breathlessly, “I gotta go,” he says, “The game.”

“Okay,” Kent says, and he puts his hand on Whiskey’s chest to keep Whiskey from leaning in to kiss him again. 

Whiskey sighs and stands up. 

“I’ll uh, I’ll text you later,” he says. 

“I look forward to it,” Kent says with a smirk and a twinkle in his eye, “Kick some ass between now and then okay?”

Kent starts to stand up. 

“Why are you getting up, don’t get up,”

“I want you to kiss me one more time before you go,” Kent says. 

Whiskey takes a step back in Kent’s directions and Kent grabs the end of Whisky’s tie and pulls him back down. He kisses Whiskey, just a quick peck on the mouth, a cautious smile on his face. 

Whiskey gets to the arena just before he’d officially be considered late, he walks into the player’s lounge and grabs a gatorade off the bar. 

“Woah, cuttin’ it close,” Mouse says. 

Whiskey laughs him off. 

Bobby’s studying him, because he knows Whiskey left the house hours ago. Whiskey feels like he can read right through him. He doesn’t say anything though. 

He changes out of his suit and into a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt.

Whiskey decides he needs to tape a stick. He gets one of his from the trainer, cuts off the old tape job with an exacto knife and then he sits in the empty dressing room. Mouse wanders in to grab a soccer ball so the boys can play two-touch in the hallway, but beyond that, Whiskey’s alone. He smiles to himself. Things feel good, easy, better. One of the things he’s working on with the sport psychologist that Becks has him seeing is making sure that he doesn’t entrench hockey into every aspect of his life. Associating good times in his personal life with good times in hockey is only going to make him spiral. Because then he can let himself believe that personal self destruction for the sake of hockey is okay. He doesn’t quite understand the logic, but he’s working on it. 

He takes a deep breath. Things being okay with Kent doesn’t mean he’s going to score tonight. But he feels like he’s been on a roll, like tonight could be a culmination of something. 

He tapes starting from the toe, halfway up the heel. He’s using white tape tonight, he’ll switch it up eventually when he feels like white isn’t working anymore. He seals the tape job with wax and returns it to the equipment manager. 

By then, guys are trickling in and Whiskey decides he might as well put on his equipment. He looks across the room to the stall where Kent usually sits. That’s become part of his pre-game, looking up and stealing a glance at Kent. It feels strange not to see him. 

He looks over to Bobby’s stall. Bobby looks sturdy and serious. Most of his personality disappears in the moments before the game. He gets intense, gets ready to win, ready to lead. That’s why there’s an A on his shoulder. 

Whiskey’s gotten good at being patient. Remembering how to wait for the puck, waiting to see if there’s a pass to be made before he rips a shot of his own. And he remembers that this is supposed to be fun. 

They’re missing Kent, and they can feel it against the Canadiens. It’s a fun little rivalry they have going on, sprung up early in the season. Jonesy added fuel to the fire by insinuating he thought Quebec City was nicer than Montreal in an interview. It’s chirping and shoving, and it’s mostly good natured. Whiskey laughs when Mouse gets into it with a guy who’s nearly a head taller than he is, he laughs harder when Bobby pulls him away from the fight. He jumps over the boards with a spring in his stride. 

Kent’s absence is felt on the first line and Whiskey can feel the coaches working overtime behind him. But it never feels disorganized. It feels fun, as they shuffle the lines every couple shifts. Whiskey plays a shift on the wing with Mouse as a centre, a few shifts later, he’s taking a faceoff with Bobby. He listens to Barnesy and Jonesy run their mouths all night long. 

“Slow on your feet there 73!” Barnesy shouts at a Canadien. 

“Your wife finally decide to leave your ass?” Jonesy asks. 

“Or was it your girlfriend?” Barnesy joins in. 

“The joke is that you cheat on your wife!”

Whiskey just shakes his head as the Canadien calls Barnesy a bitch. 

Whiskey scoops the puck up behind the net, he waits for Barnesy to get set up at the point and passes it out to him. 

Whiskey camps out in front of the net, he gets shoved hard and stumbles. He stays on his feet though, floats out to the hash marks. Barnesy rips a shot, it bounces off the goalie’s pads, Whiskey swoops in and recovers the puck. He protects it, circling back, he passes back out to the point so everyone can get set up, there’s another shot, it rebounds again. Bobby scoops it up and shoots. The goalie dives to make the save, it rebounds wide, the right side of the net is wide open and the puck is spinning on the ice and Whiskey can see his shot. He takes two strides, sees a defender with his eyes wide trying to race Whiskey to the puck. Whiskey gets there though. The puck is on the stick and he’s flexing his arm and the stick flexes exactly where it’s supposed to. He hears the puck hit the crossbar, sees the twine at the back of the net bulge. He hears the goal horn and sees the goal light and his mouth drops open and he can feel the grin on his face. Barnesy and Jonesy are the first ones to mob him. He puts his hands in the air and lets out a cheer. Finally. 

He skates by the bench, guys holding their fists out. They cheer as he knocks his knuckles against theirs. He sits down on the bench and Becks slaps him on the back and St. Marie taps the back of his helmet. 

Whiskey doesn’t stop smiling for the rest of the game. It ends 1-0 and Whiskey gets mobbed in the dressing room. St. Marie and Becks come into the room. 

“Boys, that was some hockey,” he says, “We squeaked ‘er out without Parson, and I’m proud of you beautiful bastards.”

“Whisk,” he says and reaches into his pocket, he tosses something at him. Whiskey snatches it out of the air and finds a hockey puck in his hand, “Figure you might want that.”

“Thanks,” Whiskey says. 

Snowy comes into the dressing room and hugs him in an aggressive punch-y sort of way. 

“You’ve got some reporters lookin’ for ‘ya Whisk,” Becks says. 

There’s another round of cheers and Whiskey’s grinning. 

“I’ll give ‘ya a minute,” she says.

“Yes ma’am,” Whiskey says. 

He checks his phone while he gets undressed. He scrolls past messages that he’ll answer eventually, but there’s only one text thread he wants to check. 

**Kent:** **what a fucking beauty of a goal**

 **Kent:** **god they’re showing the replay at the intermission, it was hot**

 **Whiskey:** **you’re gonna make me blush**

 **Whiskey:** **I just wish you could have been here to celebrate it with me**

 **Kent:** **come to my place after you’re done at the rink and we can celebrate**

 **Whiskey:** **I’ll be there**

He swallows hard, keeps smiling and tosses his phone into his bag. He pulls a t-shirt over his head and The PR person leads some reporters to his stall. Whiskey shakes a couple hands and smiles. 

“You’re lookin’ pretty happy there, Connor,” someone says. 

“I’m thrilled,” Whiskey says. 

“Your last goal was on November 17 in Detroit, It’s now February, is it a relief to finally get one.”

“Yeah, for sure, Whiskey says. I scored my first NHL goal in Detroit, but I think this one means more.”

“Is that because you came back from an injury?”

“Among other things,” Whiskey says, “It was a team effort. I’m just grateful that we were able to apply and sustain the pressure that got me my opportunity.”

“You guys managed that win without your captain, what does that say about your team’s drive.”

“We wanna win, it’s simple as that,” Whiskey says.

“Parson hasn’t played a game with the team as captain yet, is his leadership still felt in the locker room?”

“We have a great group of leaders. Parson’s one of them whether he’s here or not.”

“That should do it,” someone says. 

And Whiskey has never hit the showers and put his suit on so quickly. 

“Hey, man,” Whiskey approaches Bobby before he leaves, “I’m gonna be home late.”

“Sure, bud,” Bobby says, “You earned whatever it is you’re going to do,” he smirks. 

Whiskey doesn’t even tell Bobby to fuck off, that’s how in a hurry he is to get to Kent’s. He drives himself, vibrating to get to see Kent, to get to touch Kent. 

He unlocks Kent’s front door. Kent’s not on the couch like Whiskey’s used to. 

“Kent?” He calls out. 

Kent doesn’t answer. 

He walks into Kent’s master bedroom. His clothes are on the floor and the bathroom door is open. He hears Kent groaning. 

“Hey,” Whiskey says leaning against the door frame. 

Kent is sitting on the toilet, his crutches are leaned up against the wall. There’s a roll of plastic wrap next to him, he has his leg kicked out in front of him. He has a ball of plastic wrap in his hand. 

“Fuck,” Kent says. 

He’s only wearing his boxers and he’s hunched over. Whiskey can see the nasty bruises creeping up his side. 

“What’s going on?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent sighs, “I’m not supposed to get it wet,” he gestures at his cast, “I was trying to have a shower before you got here,” Kent says. 

“I’ll help you,” Whiskey says. 

“It’s okay,” Kent says, “I’ll… just.. You don’t have to.”

“I’m getting a grocery bag,” Whiskey says. 

And he does, finds one under Kent’s sink and walks back into the bathroom. Kent has his head in his hands. 

“This is deeply unsexy,” Kent says. 

Whiskey snorts, “You need to shower, sexy can come later.”

Kent rolls his eyes. 

Whiskey crouches in front of Kent and guides Kent so that it’s on his knee. He slides the bag over Kent’s air cast and secures it in place with the plastic wrap. Whiskey gets up and turns the water on for Kent. 

“Just keep your foot out of the stream of water and you’ll be fine.”

“I’m a grown up and I can’t shower by myself,” Kent grumbles. 

“You’re a grown up with one foot,” Whiskey says.

He leans over and kisses Kent on the hair. 

“I’ll be quick,” Kent says. 

“Take your time,” Whiskey says, “I’ll still be here when you get out.”

Kent hoists himself up using the sink and limps over to the shower. Whiskey leaves the bathroom to give him some privacy and independence that he seems to want. 

He wanders into Kent’s bedroom. He sits on the edge of the bed. It hasn’t been made, which is unusual for Kent. Then he realizes that Kent probably hasn’t made his bed since he got hurt, and how that probably drives him insane. He has a vague idea of where Kent would keep things. He finds Kent’s closet and opens it. Kent used to keep his linens on the top shelf of his closet and it’s true here too. He finds a fitted sheet. He takes the sheets off the bed and throws them in Kent’s hamper. His hamper is overflowing, Whiskey notices. So he makes Kent’s bed, and then he takes Kent’s hamper into the laundry room in the basement and starts a load of laundry for Kent, he’ll stay the night to finish them, he decides. 

He spots a batch of towels sitting on top of Kent’s dryer. He throws a couple of them in the dryer for five minutes. He waits for the dryer to finish and then he heads upstairs. Kent’s still in the shower. Whiskey walks into the bathroom, just to check on him. He turns around and sees Whiskey and then he slips. He loses his balance but he catches himself on the side of the shower. Whiskey lunges forward anway. The door of his glass shower is open, so Whiskey grabs him by the arm. Kent takes a breath and then he’s crying and he sniffles and Whiskey puts his other arm out to hold Kent up. He’s getting his dress shirt wet but he doesn’t particularly care. 

Whiskey just holds on to him, wraps both arms around him and lets Kent put his head on Whiskey’s shoulder. Kent breathes heavy and leans into Whiskey. 

“Can I turn the shower off?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent nods against him. 

Kent sniffles. 

“I feel so fucking useless,” Kent finally blurts out. 

Whiskey puts his arm around Kent’s waist, “It’s okay,” Whiskey says. 

That doesn’t help. 

Kent sits down on the toilet and tears the bag off his cast and throws it in the trash. 

Kent is entirely naked, and although it wouldn’t be the first time they had a serious conversation with minimal clothing, Whiskey hands him one of the towels that he just got out of the dryer. 

“Why is this warm?” Kent asks, a pause in the breakdown evidently. 

“I put it in the dryer before I gave it to you,” Whiskey says, “It’s cold today, thought you’d want to be warm.”

Kent sniffles some more. He wraps the towel around his waist. And then he hops into the bedroom, refusing Whiskey’s help. Whiskey brings Kent’s crutches anyway. 

“And you made my bed,” Kent says. And then he sits on the edge of it, sitting on top of the duvet. 

“It’s really not a big deal, I don’t mind.”

Kent sighs, “It’s just… I wanted to text you about your goal and jump in the shower and jump out by the time you got here and then blow you to celebrate, just like everything was normal,” he flops down onto the bed, “This stupid fucking injury, and everything’s weird.”

Whiskey lies down next to him so they can be face to face again. 

“Maybe it’s not normal,” he says.

Kent closes his eyes and shakes his head. 

“You’re hurt, and we’re in some weird city where everyone speaks french but it’s not real french it’s Canadian french, and the only thing we seem to be good at is getting hurt and for the first time since I’ve known you, I don’t have the floorplan of your house memorized.”

Kent sniffles again. 

“It’s weird.”

“I bought the house thinking about you,” Kent says, “Because I always knew you would end up back with me. I just didn’t think the universe was going to throw you back the way it did.”

“I wasn’t thrilled either,” Whiskey says. 

He reaches out and puts a hand on Kent’s cheek, Kent reaches out and does the same. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t try to just act like things are normal,” Whiskey says. 

“I want them to be,” Kent says, “I can’t make my own bed.”

“I can help you,” Whiskey says.

“That’s… I don’t want to ask you for that.”

“I’ll just give it to you,” Whiskey says. 

Kent looks down. 

“I want to give it to you. You’re allowed to have help when you’re hurt and whenever else you need it. You don’t have to be the one who gives, and who fixes everything all the time.”

Kent sighs, “I feel like it, a lot of the time. If I don’t fix it, who will?”

“Sometimes there’s no good answer.” 

“I always want one though.”

“I know.”

Kent closes his eyes and flops over onto his back. He has one arm out so that Whiskey can nestle up against him, he rests his chin on his chest. 

“There’s so much I still need to say to you,” Whiskey says, “I don’t know where to start.”

“Do we start over?” Kent saks. 

“What, like you slide into my DMs again?”

Kent shrugs, he doesn’t know. 

“I want to jump right back in, but I don’t know how well that’ll work.” Kent says. 

“Maybe I should start by saying the things I need to say to you.”

“Okay,” Kent says. 

“You were right that they didn’t care about me in Detroit. And you were right that it was a problem that those doctors just let me have those painkillers and take them like I did. And I still sometimes…” he takes a deep breath, knowing full well that what he’s about to say could push Kent away, that he’d have every right to be afraid, “Sometimes I still catch myself. Thinking that I could take something and it would make… certain situations better,” Whiskey says. 

Kent doesn’t leave, he squeezes Whiskey’s shoulder with his hand and pulls him closer to his chest. 

“When I started playing well, I just felt like anything was worth it.”

“You were right that I didn’t understand your position. What it was like to be afraid to not be good enough.”

Whiskey sighs, “I guess.”

“No, I know. You had a point.”

“I cracked so soon after. You leaving was the breaking point, that I had ruined that. Rachel came and helped out and convinced me to do the surgery. And I talked to my friends. And Jack. Good guy.”

“Are you telling me we both talked to Jack?” Kent sputters. 

“I mean I guess I mostly talked to Bitty, which surprised me, but definitely, I hung out with Jack this one day at Samwell, and they were all there when I found out I got waived.”

“Shiiit,” Kent says. 

“I missed you every fucking day,” Whiskey says. 

“I convinced myself… I’m still a little convinced that you were better off without me.”

Whiskey shakes his head, “I wouldn’t have kept missing you then. I don’t miss the other things from Detroit, the guys and the apartment and the pills and the coaches and the fans, but I do miss you, and I did everyday.”

“There wasn’t a day I didn’t think about you.”

“I just… I want to tell you everything,” Whiskey says, “i’ve been sorting through a lot of it. I was obsessed with staying in the NHL, I was doing everything I could. I needed the guys to like me. I wasn’t… I wasn’t a person that I want to be when I was in Detroit. I uh, I slept with a lot of people, and I was an asshole. Never while we were together, but after. I just wanted them to think I was like them, because it meant I was doing the whole… hockey guy thing right.”

Kent’s quiet for a second, Whiskey feels his chest rise and fall deeply. 

“I don’t like that, I don’t like thinking about it, but… I’m not mad.”

“Ever since I got here… it was only you. You were the first person I’ve hooked up with since I got waived.”

He feels a shake in Kent’s hand. 

And then Kent grabs his face and pulls him up so he can kiss him gently. 

“I wish I’d been there, or tried harder.”

“I already told you, you couldn’t have. I needed time and a couple life lessons.”

Kent chuckles. 

“I never stopped loving you.”

“Me either.”

“So what do we do?” Kent asks. 

“I want you,” Whiskey says. 

“Have me,” Kent answers. 

“You’re my captain,” Whiskey points out. 

“That complicates things,” Kent sighs, “I’ll give it away.”

“Don’t do that. We’ll talk to Becks. I had a hypothetical conversation with her about teammates and dating.”

“Motherfucker,” Kent mumbles. 

“What?”

“So did I.”

“So then she definitely already knows.”

“In the hypothetical, yes,” Kent answers. 

Whiskey laughs, and Kent joins him. Whiskey runs his hand over the tattoo on Whiskey’s chest, the one on his hip. He knows about the one on the thigh that’s in his own handwriting. He doesn’t think he wants to ask about that yet. 

“I didn’t get to tell you how proud I am,” Kent finally says. 

“For what?”

“Your goal,” Kent says, “You’re so good.”

Whiskey keens into Kent’s chest. 

“I’d be better if you were on the ice.”

He knocks on his air cast, “If I could attach blades to this bad boy, I would.”

That pulls a laugh out of Whiskey. 

“We can talk to people some time that’s not right now. Right now I want to fall asleep with you in my bed again,” Kent says. 

It’s so unbelievably tender and Whiskey has been wanting the exact same thing for months. Kent and Whiskey crawl under the blankets. Whiskey nestles himself against Kent’s chest and Kent runs his hand through Whiskey’s hair and he feels Kent’s breathing start to slow. Maybe it’s fast, and maybe it’s strange that they’re back here, but Kent is so easy to love. This is the easiest thing Whiskey has ever done. Kit jumps up onto the bed and sits on top of Whiskey’s feet. He decides he’ll allow it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they do everything real fast from here on out because they're both fed up with themselves about how long it took to actually talk and now they're in love and they still have Some Shit to sort out but, they're working on it


	36. Took the long way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from still the one for shania twain, a fact that will hopefully manage to convince you once and for all that i don't have cool music taste at all

Whiskey wakes up feeling warm. More than warm, he feels still and safe and comfortable. Kent’s arm is wrapped around him and Whiskey quickly realizes that he fell asleep on Kent’s chest and not the pillow. He tries to move without waking Kent up, but Kent’s always been a light sleeper. Kent groans and reaches down to pet Whiskey’s hair. 

“I forgot how early you wake up,” Kent groans. 

“Bet you didn’t miss that,” Whiskey teases. 

“No, I did,” Kent says and then he sits up. 

Whiskey’s still lying down and the weight of the statement hits him. That Kent missed him, all of him, even the most annoying parts. He reaches out and puts his hand on Kent’s shoulder, he sits up and places a small kiss on the side of Kent’s face. 

“What are we doing?” Kent asks. 

“Right now?” Whiskey asks. 

“In general,” Kent answers, “What do you want. From me. From this.”

“I don’t know what-”

“I don’t mean it in like, a douchey way. I just need to know what we’re doing.”

“I love you,” Whiskey says, “I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Course you haven’t,” Kent rolls his eyes but he smiles. 

“What’s that supposed to mean.”

“Nothing, your empty brain is endearing.”

“Bitch,” Whiskey teases. 

Kent turns around and presses a kiss to Whiskey’s lips. They both sink back down into Kent’s bed. Kent’s looking Whiskey in the eyes. 

“What do I tell Swoops and Kelli when they ask about you? Are you telling your friends we’re back together or just talking, or what?”

“They know we talked,” Whiskey says, “I guess I just don’t know what you want.”

“I want you to be my boyfriend,” Kent says. 

“Okay,” Whiskey says, “I want that too.”

“And I want to make sure we talk about things. I thought we were good at that.”

“We were,” Whiskey says, “We just forgot for a couple months. I promise. I don’t ever want to stop talking to you” He reaches out and squeezes Kent’s hand.

Kent laughs, “Okay.”

“You’re the love of my life, you know that, right?” Whiskey says. 

Kent closes his eyes, puts his hand on his forehead, he shakes his head, smiling the whole time. And then he puts his hand on Whiskey’s shoulder and rolls on top of him so he can kiss him. 

“You just say stuff like that, huh?” Kent says. 

“I thought it. I wanted to tell you,” Whiskey says, and he cranes his neck up to kiss Kent, “You don’t have to say anything back.”

“I don’t have to say anything because you don’t think I’d mean it or because you think it’s true.”

Whiskey shrugs. 

“Well it’s the second one,” Kent says.

Whiskey wraps both of his arms around Kent, forcing him to stay pressed to his chest. 

“I’m gonna put your laundry in the dryer,” Whiskey whispers against Kent’s face. 

“I haven’t done laundry in a week,” Kent says. 

“I did it last night” Whiskey says. 

“Oh,” Kent says, “You didn’t have t-”

“Shut up, I love you,” Whiskey says, “It was easy. I even sorted your colours.”

“Wow, that’s a big accomplishment for you.”

Whiskey normally just throws all of his clothes into the wash at once, it used to drive Kent up the wall. Whiskey switches the laundry, when he comes upstairs, Kent is sitting in the living room. He got the laser pointer out and he’s screwing around with Kit. The laser pointer game is always fun up until a point. She eventually realizes that the shiny red dot is coming from the pointer and then she becomes hellbent on knocking it out of whoever’s hand it is currently in. They used to time how long it took her to realize. Whiskey didn’t set a timer this time, but if he had to guess, he'd say it’s one of her better times. 

They have time. That’s what Whiskey keeps telling himself. No one needs to know, not yet. Not while Kent is hurt. So he visits Kent. He brings him lunch on his days off and he keeps doing his dishes and cleaning the things that he knows Kent would like to keep clean if he could. 

The team doesn’t need to know that it’s Kent who blows up his phone after the games. A string of live reactions and praise. He doesn’t need them to know that when he leaves the hotel bar early while they're on the road that it’s so he can get to the hotel room before Danny and call Kent to go over the game. There’s no one whose opinion on his hockey he really cares about more than Kent’s, aside from Becks’, maybe. And even then that’s a relatively new development. It’s to say goodnight too. He didn’t realize how much he missed just saying goodnight, to be able to say the three words he stopped saying but never stopped thinking. 

Bobby looks at him weird sometimes when he goes over to Kent’s. Whiskey’s never told him where he’s going but he assumes that he has some kind of clue. He’s usually home in time for dinner on their off days, and when he’s not he always texts Emily to let her know. His life doesn’t really change all that much. He still wakes up and runs in the morning and he goes to practice and he plays road hockey with Piper when she asks him to. It’s just that now instead of moping and thinking about Kent, he actually goes and talks to him. 

Whiskey doesn’t spend the night because that’s the fastest way for Bobby to get really suspicious really fast, but also because they haven’t actually talked about sex. What’s good and what’s okay. Maybe that’s weird all things considered, but Whiskey feels like that’s a step they have to figure out how to take again. It always gets interrupted by something, or they realize they don’t have enough time, and it’s a little bit of a relief. Whiskey doesn’t know how long it’s supposed to be until he can call Kent baby again, until he can tell him he’s pretty or grab his ass while he’s brushing his teeth. He kisses Kent, Kent kisses him back. He tells him he loves him, but there are  _ whens  _ and  _ whats  _ and  _ hows  _ that Whiskey doesn’t know how to deal with. 

“I watched your post-game today,” Kent says on the phone after a Nordiques home game. He’s sitting in his bed at Bobby’s. Some of the guys went for drinks, but Whiskey was tired and decided to go home.

“And?” Whiskey asks. 

“It was cute when you got all flustered when that guy tried to ask you a question in french.”

Whiskey blushes. Is it lame to blush over the guy who knows more about you than you do yourself calls you cute? He thinks it is. He can’t help it. 

“I don’t speak french,” Whiskey says. 

“Not even a little? Didn’t you have to take a language class to graduate.”

“I took spanish and my mom did my homework for me,” Whiskey says. 

Kent laughs and then he pauses, quiet for a second. 

“I can teach you, just enough that you don’t flounder the second you hear a quebecois accent.”

Whiskey laughs with Kent, but he nods to himself. 

“I’d like that,” Whiskey says. 

“I figure you’ll be sticking around long enough that it’ll be useful.”

“Ah, I don’t know,” Whiskey says, “I’m considering scoring less so they stop making me do interviews.”

“You’re cute when you score. Don’t stop scoring.”

“Are you flirting with me? After offering to teach me french? Is this a weird fantasy thing. A tutor and his impressionable student.”

“Fuck off” Kent responds to the teasing. Whiskey loves nothing more than hearing Kent’s smile through the phone. 

“I’ve gotta go to bed,” Whiskey says, “I’m wiped.”

“Okay, first lesson,” Kent says. 

“Okay,” Whiskey agrees through a yawn.

"Bonne Nuit, Goodnight,” Kent says. His accent is americanized, but he stresses the right syllables, his voice gets deeper when he speaks french, and that makes Whiskey sit up a little straighter. 

“Bone nuwee,” Whiskey tries to repeat. 

“Uh, close” Kent says, “You’ll get there, je t’aime” Kent says. 

“I love you too,” Whiskey answers, “I know what that one means.”

“Good night,” Kent says. 

Every time Whiskey goes over to Kent’s place that week, Kent makes him learn a new word or phrase in french. Whiskey particularly likes the words that are almost identical to the ones in english but with a french accent. 

“I had to take french in high school, my teacher called them ‘mots amis’ friend words. Which is like, a really weird image. Like words that go to brunch together,” Kent said one day. 

Whiskey’s vocabulary consists of silvo plate (s’il vous plait) oh revoir (au revoir) and a couple everyday household objects. Kent teaches him to count to ten one day and he has the distinct feeling of being a precocious preschooler. He tries his best. He downloads Duolingo and tries to do a lesson every day, motivated by a need to impress Kent and a fear of that terrifying fucking owl. 

By mid-february, Whiskey can introduce himself, say “my french isn’t great but I’m trying, can you please go slow,” he can also rattle off some hockey related vocabulary and reliably count to 100. He has also added 13 assists and 3 goals to his regular season scoring totals. 

“Cooooonooor! Avery wants you,” Piper shrieks down the stairs one Saturday afternoon. He’s alone with the kids today, Emily’s grocery shopping and Bobby’s out trying to find a last minute gift for Valentine’s day. 

“She’s at the table,” Piper says in a much more reasonable voice when Whiskey gets to the top of the stairs. 

Whiskey finds Avery at the dining room table. There's a neatly organized pile of construction paper. Avery’s holding a marker. There’s a glue stick next to her and a shaker filled with pink glitter. 

_ “Happy Valentine’s Day!” _ he reads one of the cards. 

Avery picks up the glitter and Whiskey braces for the worst, instead, Avery neatly shakes out just the right amount of glitter so that it sticks to the glue along the border of the card and shakes off the extra onto a scrap piece of paper. None of the glitter goes where it’s not supposed to and Whiskey stands there in awe. 

“What do you need me for?” Whiskey asks. 

Avery points at a pile of envelopes and a pile of finished cards. 

“Envelope duty?” Whiskey asks. 

Avery nods enthusiastically. Whiskey’s still not heard her say a word in all the time he’s known her. He’s seen her whisper request’s into Piper’s ear for Piper to make them. He wonders if she wants to talk but can’t figure out how anymore. She always seems to like it when Whiskey figures out what she wants just by reading her expression, by reading the room. 

So Whiskey gets to work sliding the cards into the envelopes and licking the glue and setting them into a new pile. He looks over to Avery and notices a card with slightly more glitter and a picture on it. The rest of the cards just had colourful hearts drawn on them, with “Happy Valentines Day” written on the inside. Whiskey assumes they’re for her class at school. 

“Is that one for your parents?” Whiskey asks. 

Avery nods. 

Then she slides a piece of construction paper and a marker. Whiskey looks down at it. 

“Who should I make this for?” Whiskey asks. 

Avery just shrugs and pushes another marker at him. 

Whiskey frowns, because he knows what his answer is. 

“Should I draw a picture?” he asks. 

Avery nods. 

So Whiskey draws hearts. They’re kind of lopsided and his handwriting is even worse when he writes “happy valentine’s day.”

He looks over at Avery, makes sure she’s sufficiently invested in her drawing before he adds  _ “kent, i love you more than there are words for. You mean so much to me. Love, Connor.” _

Kent calls Whiskey  _ Connor  _ in serious moments, moments when he has to say something that a nickname doesn’t feel right for. This feels like a serious moment. Like there’s something incredibly important to say, something important enough to say with his actual name. 

Whiskey folds the valentine in half quickly and seals it in an envelope which he shoves into the pocket of his khakis. 

He returns to putting stickers on the envelopes for Avery. Avery doesn’t look up at him, doesn’t really acknowledge the weird way he just tried to hide that construction paper. 

Piper runs into the dining room. Her socks make her skid across the floor and she has to grab onto the dining room table to stop her. 

“Guess what!” Piper exclaims. 

Avery looks up, so does Whiskey. 

“Mom and Dad are going out for dinner tonight which means we get to order pizza!” 

Avery shoots Piper an enthused thumbs up. 

Whiskey smiles, sounds like a good night to him. 

Emily gets home first, Whiskey’s sitting in the kitchen when she does. 

“The girls were good?” she asks. 

“Yes ma’am,” Whiskey answers, “Where’s Bobby?”

“Oh he’s picking up Kent, he agreed to watch the girls tonight.”

Whiskey hopes Emily doesn’t notice how wide his eyes go or that what he tried to disguise as a cough was actually him choking on air. 

“Oh,” Whiskey says, “I could’ve done it.”

“You’re not here to be our babysitter, I didn’t know if you had plans tonight, or if you’re seeing anyone,” she wiggles her eyebrows at him. 

“Uhhh, not really,” Whiskey answers. 

“Well, obviously you can stay home and eat pizza, but don’t feel like you have to.”

She turns her attention away from Whiskey to putting away the groceries. 

Whiskey knows that he shouldn’t actually be nervous about Kent coming over. It’s not actually a date, Kent’s not coming here for him. There’s no reason for him to shower and use his nicest smelling body wash, and there’s no reason for him to do his hair or make a conscious decision not to wear sweatpants and a hoodie. He wears a polo shirt in navy blue because Kent told him it was a good colour on him once. He’s not trying to impress Kent, not really, but he is at the same time. He doesn’t understand it. 

It’s just Kent, but at the same time, it’s  _ Kent.  _ He still has the envelope in the pocket when he goes back upstairs. 

“Connor! Good, you’re here!” Piper says when Whiskey walks up the stairs. She’s wearing her hockey gear and standing in the kitchen, “I let five goals in last night, we need to practice, urgently,” she says. Her helmet is resting on top of her head. She finishes talking and slams the cage down in front of her face and marches out into the driveway. Whiskey grabs his gloves and his stick and follows without protesting. They have a shooting pad set up so that Whiskey can shoot pucks instead of road hockey balls at her. She immediately drops into position and he smiles to himself. 

He takes a shot, it’s light, and it hits her in the chest. 

“Don’t take it easy on me!” She scolds him, “come on! I can take it!”

“If you’re sure,” Whiskey answers. 

He rips a shot into the the top left corner and she’s not fast enough to stop it from going in. 

“Keep going!” she shouts. 

They’re still in the driveway and practicing when they see Bobby’s car pull into the driveway. Piper takes off her helmet as Bobby hands Kent his crutches and Kent hobbles up the driveway. 

“Hi Parson!” Piper shouts. 

“Damn, kid, do you ever rest?” Kent shouts up the driveway. 

“I let in five goals last night!” Piper shouts back, “Connor’s helping me practice.”

“You’re not coming inside?” Bobby asks. 

“Do we have to?” Piper says, a slight whine to her voice. 

“No, you’re good,” Bobby says. 

“I’m gonna say hey to Em and Avery,” Kent says. 

He looks at Whiskey, a soft smile on his face, he meets his eye and then follows Bobby inside. 

Whiskey loses track of time when he’s playing hockey, and Piper’s the same way. They don’t notice time has passed until Bobby and Emily re-appear outside, dressed like they’re going out. 

“You’re still at it?” Bobby asks. 

Piper nods determinedly. 

“Alright, well, we’re heading out,” Emily says, “Please go inside when dinner gets here, okay?”

Whiskey and Piper nod in unison. 

“And don’t wear yourself out, Pipes,” Bobby says. 

Piper nods and then instructs Whiskey to start taking shots glove side. 

They’re still outside when the street lights come on and Emily and Bobby are long gone. Whiskey can feel his arms getting sore, but it’s not urgent. Eventually, he hears the door swing open and he sees Kent standing in the doorframe. 

“Dinner’s almost here, come get washed up,” he says it mostly to Piper but also to Whiskey. 

Whiskey packs up the net and the shooting pad while Piper takes off her gear and leaves it in the garage. She trudges upstairs to their bathroom without saying anything. 

“She’s quiet,” Kent says to Whiskey. 

“She had a bad game,” Whiskey answers. 

“Oh,” Kent says, “Pizza’s almost here.”

Kent looks at him like he’s a little bit embarrassed, like he’s not quite sure what he should be doing with his hands. 

“Okay,” Whiskey says. 

He washes his hands at the kitchen sink while Avery stares at him from the dining room table. He looks back at her, but she’s unfazed, just keeps staring. 

“Do you want to watch a movie with dinner?” Whiskey hears Kent asking Piper in the living room. 

He doesn’t hear Piper’s answer, so she must have only nodded, because Kent says, “Cool, you pick the movie,” and then Whiskey hears the familiar  _ ba dum  _ that happens when you open Netflix. 

Kent is undoubtedly the one in charge. He answers the door and pays for the pizza and he finds the plates and sets everything down on the coffee table. They sit on pillows on the floor, and Kent sits on the couch while they watch  _ A League of Their Own  _ at Piper’s request. Whiskey eventually moves to the couch, the opposite end to Kent. He keeps catching himself looking over at him, watching Kent more than he watches the movie. Whiskey looks at Avery halfway through and realizes she’s fallen asleep in her massive nest of pillows. Piper’s sitting up straight, so straight that it’s almost awkward. Whiskey notices that she hardly touched her dinner, despite her previous enthusiasm at the idea of pizza and a movie. 

“Not hungry, Piper?” Whiskey asks. 

Piper shrugs and she winces a little when she does. 

“You okay?” he asks her with a raised eyebrow, Kent’s looking at the two of them intently. 

“Yep,” she says, and it’s almost too chipper, she’s watching the movie too closely. As if to prove a point, she takes a bite of her discarded slice of pizza. 

“It’s okay if you’re not,” Whiskey says. 

Piper sighs deeply. 

She rolls up her sweatpants up to her knee so that Whiskey can see a nasty purple bruise on her shin. 

“It’s worse than they usually are,” Piper mutters, “It hurts. And I’m stiff.”

“Oh my god,” Whiskey hears Kent muttering. 

“You let me take shots on you when you were hurt?” Whiskey asks. 

“I needed the practice,” Piper answers. 

“Did it happen last night?”

“It happened at practice the night before,” Piper says. 

“Did you tell your coach that you’re sore?”

Piper shakes her head. 

“I’ll get some ice,” Kent says and he stands up, he grabs his crutches and hobbles to the kitchen. 

Whiskey slides onto the floor. He pokes at the bruise and Piper winces. 

“Practicing more can’t have helped that,” Whiskey says. 

“I told you, I let five goals in last night.”

“Did you think maybe you let five goals in because you were hurt?” Whiskey asks. 

“I needed the practice,” Piper says through gritted teeth. 

“You can’t just practice everything better,” Whiskey says. 

“Why not?” Piper asks, “You do.”

“I-” Whiskey starts, “Playing through being hurt doesn’t make you play better. Especially not right now, not while you’re still growing.”

It’s not an answer, but Kent hands him a bag full of ice before Piper can point that out. 

“I  _ need  _ to practice,” Piper says as Whiskey positions the ice over her bruise, “I’m not as good as my new team.”

Whiskey looks up at Kent, and then quickly back to Piper. 

“Practice is good. But you need to rest too. Okay, kiddo?” Kent says. 

Piper grumbles something and then, she starts to cry. 

“Oh shit,” Whiskey says. 

Sometimes he forgets that Piper’s a little kid, that she can meltdown and cry and start wheezing while she does. She’s goofy and demanding and a little bit weird, but she’s also logical and determined and Whiskey really doesn’t know how to handle this new emotion from Piper. 

Kent scoots over on the couch so he’s sitting behind Whiskey and he looks at Piper. 

“Tell me what made you cry,” he says. 

“I’m not gonna,” she sobs, “I’m not gonna be good at hockey anymore,” and then she lets out a sob, “Everyone else is,” she sniffles, “So much better than me, I’m not gonna be, good,” she wails. 

“Woah, hey,” Whiskey says in a gentle voice, “You’re plenty good at hockey.”

“I’m not,” she insists through tears and snot. 

“We all have bad games,” Kent says, mostly uselessly. 

“And you just joined a new team,” Whiskey says, “With older kids, kids who’ve been playing a lot more competitively longer than you.”

Piper shakes her head. 

“You have time to catch up,” Whiskey says, “And you will.”

“What if I don’t,” she’s still sobbing, “What if the bruise never goes away,” she keeps wailing. 

“Pipes, that’s not how bruises work,” Whiskey says with a small smile on his face. 

“I wanna be,” she inhales rapidly, “I wanna be the best.”

“I know,” Whiskey says, “That’s a really hard goal,” he points out, “But being  _ your  _ best is a better one.”

Piper wipes away her tears with her sleeve, it’s not much use because they just keep coming. 

“Practice because it’s fun, okay?” Whiskey says, “I really don’t like that I might have hurt you more without knowing it when we were practicing.”

Piper cries more. 

“But it’s okay, I understand. Please, just promise me that when we go out into the driveway and practice that it’s because we want to, not because we think we have to. Because we love hockey, not because we’re punishing ourselves for not being good enough.”

He feels Kent shifting behind him. 

Whiskey holds out his hand and Piper shakes it. 

He lets her cry it out for a while and then looks down at her. 

“Let’s make some popcorn and finish this movie, okay?” he says. 

Kent follows them into the kitchen, he’s looking at Whiskey a little bit dazed, a little but awed. Kent lets his hand brush against Whiskey’s hand for a second, and Whiskey intertwines their pinky fingers. Their hands snap apart when the microwave timer beeps and Whiskey takes the bag out and dumps it into a bowl for Piper. They return just in time to hear Tom Hanks tell Bitty Schram that there’s no crying in baseball, which Kent vey loudly declares to be “Bullshit, we all cry,”. Whiskey inches closer and closer to Kent as the movie goes on. 

He sees Piper curled up next to Avery in the pillow nest and she nods off. He looks over at Kent, and Kent looks over at him. Whiskey inches closer so that their thighs are touching. 

Whiskey looks at Piper and then he grabs Kent’s hand. Kent runs his thumb over Whiskey’s knuckles in a familiar gesture that sends Whiskey’s heart swooping. 

“I had no idea she felt like that,” Whiskey whispers. 

Kent nods. 

“It just, like, broke my heart thinking about how much pressure she must put on herself, because it’s not coming from Em or Bobby.”

Kent nods again. 

Whiskey sighs, “I just wish she told me. I wouldn’t have let her go for that long practicing if I knew she was hurt”

“She’s stubborn,” Kent says. 

“Mmm,” Whiskey agrees. 

“Reminds me of someone.”

“Who?” Whiskey asks. 

“You, stupid,” Kent says, “Take your own advice some time.”

Whiskey blushes, because he honestly hadn’t realized. 

“She’s you but as a nine year old,” Kent says. 

“And a goalie,” Whiskey points out. 

Kent laughs gently. Whiskey puts his head on Kent’s shoulder and leans into him. 

“You did a good job,” He whispers.

Whiskey shrugs, his eyes flutter closed as Kent plays with his hair.

“She’s a good kid,” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah,” Kent smiles. 

Whiskey’s eyes land on Avery and he suddenly feels the weight of the envelope in his pocket. 

“I have something for you,” he says, he sits up slightly and pulls the somewhat crumpled envelope from his pocket and hands it to Kent, “Avery was making cards today,” he mutters. 

Kent looks down at the envelope like he’s afraid of what’s inside, and then his face breaks into a gentle smile. He tears open the envelope and pulls out the card. Whiskey’s always hated giving gifts because you have to watch people open them and read the card and it just feels so overly sincere. When Kent finishes reading, he pauses for a second and blinks, he sets the card down on the coffee table and puts his arm around Whiskey’s shoulder and pulls him close. And then he kisses him, softly and gently and he says. 

“I love you too, those are all the words I need.”

Whiskey doesn’t move, he stays sprawled on the couch, leaning against Kent while Kent has his feet resting on an ottoman in front of the couch. He lets himself drift, relaxing into Kent and drifting off. He’s vaguely aware of the sound of a key in the lock and he hears the door opening and then he hears footsteps. And why would he open his eyes? Why would he wake up and move away from this, the most amazing man-pillow in the world. 

He hears whispering, something to the affect of, “You take Piper and I’ll take Avery and then we can…” he doesn’t hear the last part. 

His eyes snap open about five minutes later when he hears Bobby clearing away the pizza box from the table. He sits up straight, jumps across the couch so he’s not even close to touching Kent. He looks over at Kent, now also awake, looking just as mortified as Whiskey is. The realization of Bobby’s probable realization sinks in.

“So,” Bobby says, “This is a conversation worth having,” he sets down the napkins he had previously been clearing away. 

Whiskey can feel himself turning red, he can feel the heat in his cheeks burning through his grogginess. 

“We were just sleeping!” is the first thing Whiskey thinks to say, which makes this whole thing sound way worse than it is. Way to be super defensive for no reason, great thinking, Whisk. 

“No shit,” Bobby says. 

Bobby clears his throat.

“I um, I just want…” he stammers, “It’s not- I’m not… It’s not a big deal, I just-” he fumbles for words, “And I had guess that that’s where you were going when you weren’t here… and I know you two um, weren’t… but now you are… uh,” he sighs, “I just want to know what I’m actually reacting to here, because you fuckers were cuddling and that’s a new development.”

Kent actually laughs. 

They haven’t put real words to it yet, not words that Whiskey knows how to give to someone else. 

“We just kind of fell asleep,” Whiskey mumbles. 

“Okay,” Bobby says. 

“We’re kind of together again,” Kent says, “Not kind of,” Kent says, “It’s,” he trails off, “We are.”

He reaches over and grabs Whiskey’s hand. 

“Okay, that’s cool. As long as you’re both happy and… yeah, that makes sense.”

Bobby’s cool, and understanding and he’s a good friend, but he is also, fundamentally a heterosexual, Canadian, hockey-playing dad who is handing this about as well as could be expected. 

“I’m happy for you,” he adds, “Just uh… the team.”

“No one knows,” Whiskey says, “We figured we had uh, time. Because Kent’s hurt so we’re not actually technically working together right now so it won’t be weird.”

“Right,” Bobby says, “Are you going to… tell people?” He asks. 

Kent sighs, “I think we have to.”

“Oh thank god,” Bobby breathes a sigh of relief, “I’m terrible at keeping secrets.”

“We’ll tell Becks first, probably,” Kent says. 

They find themselves discussing plans that they’ve only really alluded to. Tell Becks, tell the guys they were closest to, tell the coaches and the GMs and PR, and everyone else could figure it out. They talk about how they aren’t really into PDA so that’s not a thing they have to worry about at the rink and they assure Bobby that they really are happy, at least when it comes to being together. 

Bobby finishes cleaning up, Whiskey helps, both of them scolding Kent when he tries to get up. He mentions Piper’s small meltdown while they put away leftovers and Bobby nods knowingly in a sort of unmistakably fatherly way, a way that says he’s got it from here. 

“Well Parse, the guest room is still yours if you want it,” Bobby says, “But I’m not your dad, so…” he trails off and Whiskey nods. 

“Just uh, I dunno… be safe?” He says. 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Whiskey stands up, “Thank you for your support, but we should all go to bed,” Whiskey hands Kent his crutches. 

They maneuver downstairs and Whiskey throws Kent a pair of pajama pants while he gets changed and they’re both yawning by the time they crawl into bed, Kent’s head tucked against Whiskey’s chest. 

“It feels real again,” is the last thing Kent mutters before he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the robertson family is so good at reading whiskey to absolute filth. I really love writing the relationship between whiskey and piper because they are so very similar but whiskey really didn't realize until now. And Bobby is just such a Dad that he has no idea how to react to his two adopted hockey sons being couple-y on his couch. (also i didn't include it but imagine emily going to bed while bobby paces their bedroom asking her what he should do for like 20 minutes before he finally comes downstairs to talk to the boys)


	37. Don't wait when you know you feel it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from ready to call this love by mika

Whiskey’s in Chicago when a doubt starts to creep in. He had a bad game, he feels bad. He doesn’t want to be around anyone. He doesn’t want to talk to Bobby, he wants to be alone in the hotel room, without Danny for at least an hour. 

He tells Danny as much. Danny nods and tells Whiskey that he was planning on hanging out with Mouse and Jonesy for a while anyway so the room is all Whiskey’s to wallow in. The Nordiques lost 1-0, which all in all, isn’t that bad. Becks told them that they had nothing to be ashamed of, to shake it off and get ready for their next game tomorrow night. 

Whiskey’s not good at shaking things off and he has a whole lot of practice being ashamed. Chicago had scored 54 seconds into the first period, and after that, fucking nothing. Every shot went wide, every breakout attempt was foiled. There was nothing Whiskey could do. He locks the door behind him, Danny has a key. He paces around the room, his heart rate rises at every turn. Not one breakaway, not one successful powerplay, their expected goal statistics were high, but they couldn’t score. They literally defied probability. 

Did he mention they’re playing Detroit tomorrow night? Yeah, Whiskey’s not having a good time. He opens the window because the room started to feel hot some time after his fifteenth lap. He yanks off his tie and puts it on top of his suitcase. 

The worst part is that he knows how to make this feeling stop. There’s more than likely several mini bottles of vodka somewhere in the fridge in this room. There’s a concierge who’ll bring him whatever he wants. He could make it go away and just go to sleep, or go out and scream and  _ actually  _ forget this game.

He could ruin his life again. The life that he’s trying very hard to get back. The life that he really doesn’t feel like he deserves right now. He looks at the nightstand next to his bed and sees it ringing. He sees Kent’s caller ID. The phone rings once, twice. It rings a third time, and a fourth and then a fifth and final time before Kent gets sent to voicemail. 

He stands in the middle of the room, just staring at it. He looks and then he realizes what he’s doing. He snaps out of it and snatches the phone off of the nightstand. He hits  _ call back  _ faster than he ever has in his life. 

“I’m so sorry,” are the first words out of Whiskey’s mouth when he hears Kent answer him. 

“Woah,” Kent says. 

“I was ignoring you, I was being stupid, I saw the phone ring but I didn’t pick up,”

“I need you to slow down here,” Kent says, “Are you okay? I just wanted to call to say goodnight, it’s not the end of the world. But are you okay?”

“No,” Whiskey answers and it comes out choked, “Well. I’m trying.”

“That’s all that matters,” Kent’s voice is soft, but Whiskey can hear him tremble near the end of the sentence. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Whiskey says. 

“Not talking is what got us into a mess in the first place,” Kent says, “I never thought this was going to be easy, but not talking is going to make it harder.”

“We went 59 minutes without a goal,” Whiskey finally sighs, “and it just made me feel so useless. I’m exhausted but I feel like it’s for no reason.”

“It looked rough,” Kent says. 

“You watched? I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who made it through all three periods. Like anyone watching at all. I think even Becks was bored by the second.”

“I watch every game,” Kent says with all seriousness, “Even if there’s nothing I can do to help. I need to know.”

“It would have gone better if you’d been there,” Whiskey says. 

“You don’t know that.”

“I wish we knew.”

“I wish I had been there. I wish I was there,” Kent’s not just talking about hockey and he can tell. Whiskey hears him sniffle. 

“Me too,” Whiskey says and he takes a shaky breath. 

He looks down at his feet and runs his free hand through his hair. 

“I’m not telling you this because I want you to worry. I don’t want you to worry,” Whiskey starts, “But you told me you want to talk. It’s hard… being here. I don’t want to be with the team, but I don’t feel like I trust myself to be alone anymore. To be alone without being that person again,” Whiskey feels tears welling up in his eyes, he can feel his voice getting heavier, “I guess because I am that person, that person was me and they’re not as different as I want them to be. I’m one bad game away from another bad decision and a bad night. I don’t trust myself anymore,” Whiskey says. 

“I do,” Kent says.

“What?”

“I trust you,” Kent whispers. 

“Even… now.”

“Yeah,” Kent says, “You’ve been through it. I trust you. I really do. You can do this.”

“What if I can’t?” Whiskey says, he feels his hand shake, “I thought about it. How easy it would be to…” Whiskey hates to say it, because he hates admitting it was a thing that happened, a problem that  _ he  _ had, “to just drink or…” he trails off. He has money and he has the teeniest tiniest crumb of fame, he knows guys in Detroit who could score coke with a single “u up?’ text.

“Thinking about it doesn’t mean you’ll do it,” Kent says, “You called me back, didn’t you?” Kent says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “I uh. Yeah. okay. I believe you.”

“Damn right you do,” Kent says, “Because I’m right.”

Kent manages to pull a tiny laugh out of Whiskey that even surprises him. 

“I wish you were here,” Whiskey says, “I hate roadies.”

“I’ll be there soon,” Kent says, “I’ll be back in the lineup by playoffs at the latest.”

Whiskey nods, then he remembers Kent can’t see him, “I know, I just,” he sighs, “I’ve been missing you for so long and now I just want to spend all the time I have with you.”

Kent laughs in a sort of choked up, bitten off way.

“I know the feeling.”

They were in the same room, on the same sheets of ice, the same plane, the same bus, fuck, even the same bed sometimes, but it never felt like Whiskey was really  _ with  _ Kent in the past few months. And now that they’re letting themselves talk and be boyfriends, they don’t get to share space anymore. Life’s not fair. 

“I wish I was with you,” Kent says, “More than anything I wish I was playing, and playing with you. I want to be there so bad, baby,” Kent says. 

And Whiskey, tired and emotional, breaks. He doesn’t have time to register that he’s about to cry before he’s crying.

“Did I say something?” Kent sounds worried and Whiskey hates that. 

He sniffs, and then he smiles a little bit, takes a shaky breath. 

“You called me  _ baby _ .”

“Should I not do that anymore?” Kent asks, sounding panicky and Whiskey hates that Kent can’t see his small smile through the phone, because if he did, then he’d get it. 

“No,” Whiskey says, “Never stop,” Whiskey says, “I just didn’t… and you haven’t, not since…” he trails off, “I didn’t know when we were allowed to say that,” Whiskey says. 

“What?” Kent asks, “Say _baby_?”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “I don’t know what’s new and what’s not new and what’s normal to say when.”

“I think we stopped being normal a while ago, baby,” Kent says. 

Whiskey laughs. 

“Can I-”

“Call me whatever you want, whenever you want. I want all of it,” Kent says. 

“I love you,” Whiskey says.

“I love you,” Kent says back, “You should go to bed,” Kent whispers. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “It’s late. Danny’s gonna be back soon anyway.”

“Long day tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “Detroit.”

“Shit, I didn’t even think about that part,” Kent says. 

“I’ll be okay,” Whiskey swallows, he hopes it’s the truth. 

“Okay,” Kent says, “I love you. So much,” Kent says. 

“Thank you,” Whiskey says. 

“Loving you is way too easy for you to thank me for doing it,” Kent says, it’s a joke but Whiskey knows he means it, he feels it as much as he knows it. 

“I’ll see you soon, I love you,” Kent says. 

“Goodnight, baby,” Whiskey smiles when he says it

He’s in bed by the time Danny gets back from Mouse’s room, which is probably for the best, he can assume he looks awful between the game and the tears and the general misery he’s just gone through. 

If he thinks about Detroit too hard, he knows he’ll lose it again. So he gets ready, packs his things, meets the team for the early morning flight and he doesn’t think too hard about where he’s going. 

“Ayyy Whiskey, dude,” Mouse says on the flight, “Help me out here, Parse is kicking my ass at battleship,” he holds up his phone and shows Whiskey the screen, sure enough, Kent just sunk Mouse’s battleship in an iPhone game. 

Whiskey got used to napping on flights in Detroit, it was a way to make up for the sleepless nights. It carried over with this team, but he’s not tired anymore, just doesn’t know how to talk to the team, who he’s friends with. 

He smirks and jumps over a seat to sit next to Mouse.

“Put all your ships close together this time,” Whiskey says, “That always trips him up.”

“Oh, I never thought of doing that,” Mouse says. 

Whiskey points to the middle of the board, shows Mouse where to put his ships. 

“And then he’ll always put his battleship in the bottom row, right in the middle. Trust,” Whiskey says. 

He sits with Mouse for the whole flight, helps him kick Kent’s ass at battleship, sits there mostly uselessly when they start playing scrabble. 

“I thought you went to college, man,” Mouse elbows him. 

“Barely,” Whiskey snorts. 

It gets a laugh out of Mouse, and he’s happy about that. Smiles to himself about it. 

He doesn’t notice Detroit. Even as they get off the plane, even as they get on the bus, get to the hotel. 

It’s only when they get to the rink that it hits him. 

“You good, bud?” Mouse asks when Whiskey walks through the door to the visitor’s room. He’s never been on this side. 

“Uh,” Whiskey says, “Yeah,” he’s never been especially close with Mouse, he’s just a guy he’s been hanging out with today, “It’s just really fucking weird.”

“Oh, yeah,” Mouse says, “I guess it would be, huh.”

Whiskey nods. 

“We’ve got your back, dude,” Mouse says. 

It’s a familiar refrain after so many years at Samwell. He’s still learning why it matters. 

The practice jerseys are waiting for them in the dressing room along with their equipment. Whiskey dresses quickly, he hits the ice first, Snowy’s behind him. 

“Man I hate this building,” Snowy says. 

“Yeah, me too,” Whiskey agrees. 

“Different reasons,” Snowy nods, “I feel you though.”

“Thanks, dude.”

“Alright folks, easy praccy today,” Coach St. Marie declares when everyone’s on the ice, “Just a little morning skate to stay limber.”

Whiskey goes through some simple drills for the mandatory part of practice. Most of the team heads off the ice after St. Marie blows his whistle. Snowy stays, Mouse stays for a while and then heads out. 

But Whiskey and Snowy remain, even after St. Marie has left and it’s just Becks sitting on the bench with a clipboard writing something down. 

“I wanna feel ready, y’know?” Whiskey says while he and Snowy take a quick water break. 

“Yeah, I know,” Snowy says. 

“I guess you can figure why I hate this building, but what do you have against it?” Whiskey asks. 

“You want the list?” Snowy asks. 

“There’s a list?”

Snowy chuckles, “I never play well in Detroit. Even when they were playing out of the old rink. Lost two playoff rounds here, and it’s where I broke my ankle.”

“Oh,” Whiskey says, “And the ankle…”

“The ankle’s what got me traded, yeah,” Snowy confirms. 

“That fucking sucks,” Whiskey says. 

Snowy shrugs, “It’s a business, right?”

“Yeah.”

“There are worse places I could have landed.”

“For sure.”

Snowy sets down his water bottle and sighs. 

“Alright, 20 pucks and then we’ll pack it up.’

“You got it,” Whiskey agrees. 

Whiskey’s stickhandling, somewhere around the 12th puck, he’s eyeing Snowy looking for the gaps in his pads. 

“He’s gonna go five-hole!” He hears someone shout. Kent. He hears Kent shout it , and that makes no sense, because Kent’s not here, because Kent can’t be here.

He turns around anyway. He is here. Standing behind the bench, still propped up by his crutches, he’s grinning. Whiskey’s confused, delighted, also a little bit annoyed, because he was going to shoot five-hole and now Snowy knows that. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Snowy asks before Whiskey can, he lifts his mask off his head. 

“Moral support!” Kent shouts back, “Figured I’d hang out in a press box tonight.”

Whiskey starts to skate over. 

“Finish practicing,” Kent says, “Don’t let me distract you.”

Whiskey does in fact, go five-hole on his next shot. Snowy deflects it with a smirk. 

Whiskey cleans up the pucks, since Snowy stopped more than Whiskey got past him and the loser has to clean up the ice. He carries the bucket of pucks to the bench and stands in front of Kent. He looks, to make sure he’s real and here. He is, and he’s smiling, brilliantly at him. 

Snowy walks past him on the way to the dressing room. 

“You two are fucking weird,” he mumbles. 

“What are you doing here,” Whiskey says. 

“Told you, moral support. Gonna watch from the press box,” Kent answers. 

“And you being here has nothing to do with the phone call last night?” Whiskey asks. 

“Oh no, it for sure does,” Kent says, “Got time for lunch?”

“I can squeeze it in,” Whiskey says. 

“Good,” Kent says with a goofy smile that matches Whiskey’s. 

They avoid the restaurants near the hotel, it’s not that they don’t want to see the team, it’s just that they need some time to themselves. They find a place a couple blocks from the rink that looks like it matches the diet plan and they get a table in the back corner of the restaurant. 

“So,” Kent says, and he’s playing with his silverware while they wait for their meals. He looks serious and Whiskey frowns slightly. 

“It’s weird being back here,” Kent says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey agrees. 

“Have you seen anyone from the old team.”

Whiskey shakes his head, “Niemenen got called up. He’s on their fourth line. So I will. I haven’t seen them since we went out that night in QC. I-” Whiskey cuts himself off and frowns, “They’re not bad dudes or anything,” Whiskey says, “They just, and the city too I guess, it all reminds me of what was going on while I was here.”

“That makes sense,” Kent says. 

“Thank you for pretending I’m not crazy,” Whiskey takes a sip of his water and sighs. 

“You’re not,” Kent says, “When we played the Aces I felt like I was going to throw up the whole time.”

“God,” Whiskey blows out a breath, “There are like, way too many things in my brain?”

“Like what?” Kent asks, “Talk about it, it helps.”

“The game, first off,” Whiskey says, “I can’t think of a more embarrassing way to lose than how we did last night.”

“I can,” Kent says, “You ever accidentally kick the puck into your own empty net, end up in overtime and then lose 30 seconds into overtime.”

Whiskey lets out a low whistle. 

“You’ll get over being embarrassed,” Kent says, “I promise.”

“I’m worried about having to see Jari, and the coaches. And those doctors. Not that it’s their fault but…”

“It reminds you of it, I get it.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey exhales, “It really does. It’s hard.”

Kent nods. 

“And I guess… you,” Whiskey says, “That I’m gonna fuck up again and lose you like last time,” his voice is just above a whisper and he’s looking Kent right in the eyes. Kent’s look at him, piercing. A look that Whiskey might have called pity a month ago he now recognizes as empathy and sadness. 

“You telling me that,” Kent says with a seriousness that he rarely has, “Just proves that you’re not fucking it up.”

Whiskey grabs Kent’s hand under the table, Kent squeezes it and Whiskey takes a shaky breath. 

“Thank you.”

“What else?” Kent asks. 

“I guess… they’re gonna find out some time,” Whiskey rasps out, “About us. That’s… things are gonna change and that’s gonna be weird.”

“And scary,” Kent provides. 

“Yeah.”

“We should talk to Becks,” Kent says. 

“What?” Whiskey asks. 

“I would put money on her already knowing,” Kent says, “But she minds her own business,” he says.

“I already… I guess she’s hypothetically aware,” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah and she’s not fucking stupid,” Kent says, “She knows I’m… y’know,” Kent says.

Whiskey knows he doesn’t mind the word, but he also knows he only ever says it when they’re in private, among friends. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says. 

“So we talk to her before the game,” Kent says, “One less thing to be rattling around in your head.”

“Was that another empty brain joke?” Whiskey smirks. 

“If you can’t figure it out, then that’s a pretty good indication.”

“Bitch,” Whiskey mutters under a smile. 

They get their food. 

Kent pulls out his phone between bites. 

“I can ask her to meet us,” Kent says, “If you want.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “Yes please.”

“Okay, good,” Kent smiles and he slides his phone off the table and types out a quick text. It buzzes almost immediately after Kent hits send, “She’ll meet us in the conference room at the hotel in an hour.”

“Okay,” Whiskey says, and he can’t tell if the thing bubbling in his stomach is excitement. It’s not fear, not exactly. He’s not afraid of Becks, but he is nervous. Because like it or not, being with Kent changes things, it changes this team and the way he interacts with it, and that in and of itself is scary. 

Whiskey finishes his grilled salmon and rice and Kent finishes a burrito of some kind. Whiskey pays, he thinks of it as some kind of symbolic gesture, and Kent doesn’t try to persuade him out of it. 

Whiskey takes a deep breath when they get out of the restaurant. He pulls his jacket a little tighter around his body. 

“Ready?” Kent asks. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says. 

He keeps stealing glances at Kent while they walk back to the hotel. They walk slowly, accounting for Kent’s ankle. They don’t even bother going to their rooms to drop anything off. They’re early to the meeting, Becks isn’t in the conference room yet. Kent perches himself on the edge of a table and Whiskey starts pacing. 

“It’s gonna be fine,” Kent says. 

“I know,” Whiskey says, “Just… gotta move I guess.”

“That’s okay,” Kent says, “As long as you’re not freaking out.”

“Only a little nervous,” Whiskey says. 

“Good,” Kent says. He stands up and grabs Whiskey’s hand. It’s grounding. Like Kent’s holding him to the floor. Most of his nervous energy dissipates. 

Whiskey hears the door open and moves away from Kent, and Kent does the same. 

Becks is looking down at her phone when she walks in. Kent perches on the edge of the table again, crutches leaning next to him. Whiskey shoves his hands in his pockets and stands up straight. 

“So what do I have to pretend to be surprised about this time?” Becks sits down in one of the chairs and folds her hands on the table in front of her. 

Whiskey has no idea how to start this sentence. He looks at Kent, and Kent looks at him and they both shrug a little bit. And Becks looks between them expectantly. She’s dead silent, mostly unreadable. 

“So I’m gay,” Kent says. 

Becks looks at him sideways, opens her mouth to say something and closes it again in confusion, “Is the thing you want to tell me that you have concussion symptoms and memory loss is one of them? We’ve had this conversation.”

“I’m bisexual,” Whiskey says. 

“Mhm,” Becks says, her lips are pressed together, her eyebrows furrowed in a distinctly “what the fuck?” kind of way. 

Kent looks and Whiskey and Whiskey looks at Kent and Kent nods. 

“We’re together,” Whiskey says. 

Becks nods, entirely unsurprised. 

“It’s uh, it’s a long story,” Kent says. 

“I have time,” Becks says. 

Whiskey wonders how a person can be so robotic and seem so approachable and accepting at the same time, then he remembers Jack. 

“Cool,” Whiskey says and he exhales when he says it, more air than he realized he was holding onto. 

So they tell her. That they got together while Whiskey was in school, that they were together, that they lived together in the summer. 

“We broke up before I got sent here though,” Whiskey says and he averts his eyes, “For a few months, so I understand if you’re… hesitant all things considered. The team is important to both of us and we wouldn’t let anything personal ruin the team’s chemistry.”

Becks nods thoughtfully. 

“I don’t plan on breaking up with you ever again,” Kent says it mostly to Whiskey but also for Becks’ benefit. 

“Yeah, me either,” Whiskey mumbles. 

“We’re not... In public we don’t…” Kent’s not sure how to phrase it. 

“PDA’s not really our thing,” Whiskey provides. 

“Yeah,” Kent says, “You wouldn’t really notice a difference… Except I guess we kind of weren’t talking before.”

“But I wouldn’t treat Kent any differently on the ice than I’d treat Danny or Mouse.”

Becks nods. 

“Or off the ice,” Kent provides, “We don’t want this to be a PR thing,” Kent says, “Obviously they’d know just in case something happened, but we don’t want… Zimmermann can keep the Hockey against Hate advisor job if you know what I mean,” Kent says. 

Becks nods. 

“I told Bobby,” Whiskey says, “So he knows, but no one else, and we don’t need to tell the whole team, just some of them and if people find out that’s fine, but I don’t want… Kent would survive, but  _ my  _ career, I’m not so sure… so, yeah.”

Becks nods. 

“You’re done?” she asks. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, and Kent nods. 

“Thank you for finally telling me,” Becks says, “No offense but you were sitting on his porch like a sad little kitten last month, after the hypothetical conversation… well I’m not stupid,” Becks says, “But good, I’m glad you two sorted your shit out,” she’s harsh, but Becks is always harsh. Bluntness from Becks is almost a comfort at this point, “And you got that off your chest.”

“Feels good,” Whiskey admits. 

“Okay,” Becks says, “So, there are going to be meetings on top of meetings with HR and PR, but after that, it’s all private,” Becks says, “Your lives are yours.”

“So it’s not… a team issue,” Whiskey says, because deep down, his fear is getting traded for this. 

“No,” Becks says, “And trust me, if they make it one, they can find someone else to run their power play.”

Whiskey remembers what Becks told him about the captain and the goalie on one of her teams who got married. 

“It won’t be,” she says with a certainty that Whiskey believes. 

“Thank you,” Kent says. 

“It’s your business when you tell the team,” Becks says, “Send a group chat or never tell them, no skin off my back. I’ll set up a meeting with the coaches when we’re back in Quebec. I assume we’ll have to come up with some new rules since this is a first.”

“Okay,” Whiskey says, “That’s a lot.”

“It won’t be,” she says again, in the same voice, “Worry about tonight’s game,” she says in a way that let’s them know they’ve been dismissed. 

Whiskey holds out his arm so Kent can lean on him while he gets his crutches situated under his arms. 

“I should take a nap before the game,” Whiskey says in the elevator. 

“You should,” Kent agrees. 

They get off on the team’s floor and Kent follows Whiskey into his bedroom. Whiskey strips into his boxers and a t-shirt. He looks at Kent, sitting on the edge of his bed. Danny’s nowhere to be found. 

And he sits next to Kent, he cups the side of his face and kisses him, gently at first, then deeper, his hands trace the side of Kent’s torso and he groans. He reaches to undo Kent’s belt but he feels Kent shaking his head and he puts his hands on Whiskey’s chest. 

“You actually need to take a nap.”

Whiskey whines, but Kent stays firm. 

“Go to sleep,” Kent says. 

“Will you stay?”

“What if Danny comes back?”

“I’m not asking you to spoon me,” Whiskey says, “Just stay.”

He sets an alarm. Kent sits up next to him on his phone. Whiskey rolls over, leaning into the warmth of Kent’s body, and he falls asleep with Kent petting his hair. 

He’s not woken up by the alarm, but rather the sound of the hotel door closing, he notices Kent’s absence, he opens his eyes blearily, he sees Kent sitting in a chair across from his bed, foot propped up on another chair. 

“Parser, what the fuck are you doing here?” Danny’s voice is loud, Whiskey wants to bury his head back in the pillow. 

“Moral support,” Kent says. 

“I know that,” Danny says, “Mouse told me. What the fuck are you doing in my room?”

“Oh, uh,” Kent says, that part’s harder to explain, “I was just hanging out with Whisk.”

Danny notices Whiskey in his bed. 

“While he naps?” Danny asks incredulously.

Whiskey really wants to go back to sleep because he’s pretty sure he has at least 10 minutes left until his alarm goes off. 

“We’re dating,” he snaps and then he shoves his head into the pillow and promptly passes the fuck out. 

Danny’s staring at him when his alarm does go off. He can hear Kent snickering. 

“I accept you!” Danny blurts out. 

Whiskey’s eyes are still only half open. 

“Mmm’thanks,” he mumbles, “Can I get ready for the game now.”

“Oh, yeah! Yeah! Uh, cool.”

“We’ll talk about it later, D,” Kent says. 

Whiskey agrees. 

He straightens his tie in the mirror. There’s only one thought in his head right now, and it’s about how hard he’s going to celebrate when he scores against the Red Wings. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i said this was only going to be five more chapters like five chapters ago but i keep writing more dialogue than i mean to and breaking chapters up, so the next chapter is going to be the actual game against Detroit, will Whiskey see his old teammates? Oooooh, scary! All I know is somebody owes Becks a drink


	38. For the first time what's past is past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from begin again by taylor swift <3

“The play is under review,”

Whiskey groans on the bench, he rolls his eyes incredibly obviously as he looks up at the scoreboard. He watches the video replay of the goal he just scored. His throat still raw from screaming in celebration. There was nothing wrong with his goal. He can see that. He didn’t touch the goalie, he was wearing his neck guard, didn’t touch the defenseman. The camera angle changes to show the blue line. 

“Fuck,” he hears Mouse curse next to him. 

Mouse is offside, by about three inches, but very clearly, Mouse crossed the blue line before the puck did. Before Danny had skated the puck into the offensive zone, before Danny passed to Jonesy, before Jonesy took the puck behind the net and looked for everyone to get set up. Before Barnesy had taken a shot that rebounded and hit Whiskey’s stick, before Whiskey had shot the puck right into the back of the net. He groans, knowing they’re about to call it back before they do. 

The referee skates out to centre ice and looks up at a camera. His voice booms through the arena. 

“It was determined that the play was offside, we have no goal,” he waves his hands out. 

Whiskey narrows his eyes and shakes his head. It’s a dumb rule. The play being offside had no bearing on whether they scored, and Mouse was offside by an inch. He rolls his eyes and picks up his water bottle, a bitchy smirk on his face. He takes a sip of water, swallows half of it and spits the other half onto the ice. 

“Bullshit,” he hears Becks mutter behind him. 

They tap him on the back almost immediately for a line change. He jumps over the boards just in time for the puck to hit him on his stick. His feet are moving out of instinct. He can see the lane clearly, he can see the right play to make, sees how he can break out. His team is behind him so there’s no pass to make. He slips the puck onto his backhand, he fakes left, dragging the puck with him, and then quickly, snaps it just over the goalie’s pad. 

The horn goes off while Whiskey’s still skating, he jumps into the glass and pumps his fist. 

“That one counts baby!” Jonesy shouts and his linemates mob him, there are fistbumps and somebody (probably Barnesy) slaps his ass while he’s on his way to fly by the bench. Becks pats him on the shoulder when he sits down after his shift. He thinks about Kent in the press box and smiles to himself, and then he finds a camera, and smiles up at it. 

He hears his goal getting announced and he can’t help but smile again. The entire Red Wings bench is scowling, the Nordiques are up 3-1 now and they especially don’t like that Whiskey technically scored on them twice in the past two minutes. 

He notices Jari, in particular, staring him down. Whiskey just shakes it off as the final minutes of the clock wind down and then he celebrates with his team. The whoop and holler for Whiskey as the broadcast decides to name him a star of the game and he grins. 

Whiskey hates the ice a little less as he skates off. 

He’s out in the hallway after doing a short scrum by his stall. He walks past the trainer’s room, a route still all too familiar in his brain. 

He hears a yelp, and then cursing. Jari’s lightly accented english floats into the hallway. Whiskey doesn’t mean to, but he’s standing face to face with Jari. Jari who’s pulling his shirt on. Whiskey can see KT tape on his back and shoulder blades. He has a bruise running up his side that Whiskey is pretty sure is unrelated to the tape. More than that, he looks tired as he pulls his shirt on. Whiskey recognizes the look, the bags under his eyes, the way his face looks thinner than before. 

“Hey,” Jari says, he adjusts his shirt. 

“Hey man,” Whiskey says. 

“Hey,” Jari says, “Good game. Between us, I think that first goal of yours should have counted.”

Whiskey shrugs. 

Jari has never looked fragile to Whiskey. He was always the pinnacle of what playing hockey here was supposed to look like, confident and funny and strong. Jari looks fragile now. 

“How’s Quebec treating you.”

“Uh, still can’t speak french,” Whiskey says. 

“Ay, I bet the chicks are just lining up to teach you,” Jari says. 

“I’m not really looking for ‘em,” Whiskey answers. 

Jari falters a little bit. 

“I like it,” Whiskey says, “It’s a good city, good team. Good coaching staff too, really… welcoming I guess. They’re good people, feels good to know they care” Whiskey looks at Jari, he sees a bit of blue KT tape peeking out from the neck of his shirt, Jari’s looking at him with more vulnerability than Whiskey’s ever seen out of him. Jari always led and Whiskey always followed, “I don’t regret it,” he says, “Getting surgery. Realizing that, well, that maybe not everyone had my best interests at heart while I was here. That I had to think about that myself.”

Jari looks startled, wide eyed he looks at Whiskey, and then the defenses come back up and he laughs. 

“Yeah, man, happy for you,” he pats Whiskey on the shoulder, and then he walks away with his shoulders drawn into his chest. 

It’s a small moment for Whiskey, one that he easily shakes off when Barnesy and Jonesy pull him back into the dressing room. 

“Whiiiiiskeeeeeyyyyy!” Danny bellows. 

“That’s out boy!” Snowy shouts. 

Whiskey feels something cold running down his back and looks up to see Mouse dumping his water bottle over his head. Someone else squirts water at him. Whiskey’s face breaks into a grin as Jonesy and Barnesy wrap him in a rowdy hug. 

He laughs. 

“Alright calm down,” Whiskey shrugs them off, “It’s a regular season game, we didn’t win anything.”

“We won a game!” Mouse yells. 

“One that fucking matters to you, bro,” Jonesy elbows him. 

“Show those assholes that it was a mistake to waive you,” Barnesy elbows him from the other side. 

“Glad they did, because we’ve got you now,” Jonesy adds. 

“Alright, hit the showers,” Whiskey says. 

Kent’s sitting in the locker room, wearing his suit, legs kicked out in front of him sitting in Whiskey’s stall. He’s grinning, looks up at Whiskey. 

“That was fucking beautiful,” he says. 

“Thank you,” Whiskey says quietly, trying not to look like he’s blushing. 

He gets dressed quickly. He’s only half dressed when Barnesy turns to address the team. 

“So, we gettin’ a little drunk tonight or what?” he asks.

Whiskey feels Kent’s eyes on him immediately as he tenses up. 

A couple guys throw out names of bars downtown, they’re familiar, Whiskey feels a lump in his throat, feels himself starting to zone out. 

“Mario Kart in my room too,” Mouse says, “If you’re not feeling the bars.”

“Aw come on Mousey, we’ll buy you drinks, they won’t even card you.”

“I’m not turning down the opportunity to prove to Bobby, once and for all that he’s trash at Mario Kart.”

“Aw Bobby, you’re not coming?”

“I’m too fucking old for that shit, boys, but have fun,” Bobby claps Barnesy and Jonesy on the shoulders, “Not too much though,” he winks. 

“How ‘bout you Whisk?” Barnesy asks. 

“I think I’ll stay at the hotel, but thanks for the offer.”

Barnesy holds up his hands and nods, “Respect, bro, we’ll toast you though. That goal was fucking arousing.”

Whiskey laughs about it for a solid thirty seconds, and then smiles about the phrase for a minute more as he pulls his hoodie back on over his sweatpants. 

Some of the team goes out with Barnesy and Jonesy, but most of the guys Whiskey hangs with, opt to head back to the hotel. 

Whiskey feels something warm in his chest, like he’s been sitting outside in the sun all day. He’s tired, but in the best way. Kent looks at him like he’s something precious, and Whiskey really loves letting himself believe it. 

“Dibs on the green controller,” Danny says when Mouse unlocks the door, he bolts into the room and lays claim on his controller. 

Bobby laughs both at him and with him. 

Mouse leaves his door unlocked so guys can come and go. Kent gets settled on Barnesy’s bed on top of the sheets with his leg kicked out in front of him. Bobby takes a chair in between the beds and Danny sits at the end of Barnesy’s bed with the controller in his hand. There’s room on the other bed next to Mouse, but Whiskey sits next to Kent instead. 

“You wanna play?” Kent asks and he tries to and a controller to Whiskey while Mouse connects his Switch to the hotel TV. 

Kent shakes his head. 

“I’ll watch you,” he says quietly and then he grabs Kent’s hand and squeezes. Kent smiles softly. 

“You’re going the fuck down, Mousey,” Bobby grins. 

Mouse shakes his head, “Whatever you say old man.”

“I’m just here for a good time,” Kent laughs. 

“Well then I hope you enjoy losing,” Danny says. 

Whiskey watches in pure amusement as they race. Kent’s bad. Like, pushes the wrong button and goes backwards at the start of the race, bad. He figures it out and hovers consistently around 6th place while the other three keep battling for first. Whiskey rests his head against Kent somewhere between the first and second laps. Everyone is too busy shouting at each other to notice. Whiskey watches Kent get a blue shell at the last minute. He moves up into fourth and lets it fly. The explosion catches all three of the others and Kent passes them just seconds before the finish line. 

Kent throws his hands in the air and cheers. The other three are confused and a little bit grumpy and they’re yelling, and Whiskey’s laughing and he leans over, and he kisses Kent on the lips. 

Mouse’s eyes go wide and then he narrows them, he looks from Whiskey to Kent back to Whiskey and then his face splits into a wide grin. 

“Nice!” He says, and then he starts the next race. 

Whiskey relaxes back into Kent’s side. He’s so used to explaining things, coming up with excuses, Mouse just loads up Rainbow Road and everyone groans. 

Snowy wanders in, Kent gives up his controller and tosses it at him. Kent has his arm around Whiskey and Whiskey’s holding his hand. 

“Are you guys fucking?” Snowy asks, he’s not exactly known for beating around the bush. 

“Not in here,” Mouse cuts in before either Whiskey or Kent can answer. 

Snowy snorts, “So that’s a yes.”

“Fuck off,” Kent says and Whiskey flips him off with half a smirk on his face. 

They play until Danny starts yawning and decides he wants to go to sleep. 

“See you around Whisk… or not,” he winks. 

And Whiskey still feels warm. He’s a private person, he’s not loud or particularly proud. But right now, he feels normal. He’s getting chirped by his team, but he’s giving it right back and Kent’s getting chirped for being bad at video games at the same time and it’s nice. 

Kent and Whiskey are standing in the hallway outside of Mouse’s room. 

“Come back to my room?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey bites his lip, “Yeah.”

“You keep smiling,” Kent says while they walk a few doors down. 

“I’m really happy,” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah?” Kent asks. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “I mean it.”

Kent unlocks his door. Whiskey pushes it open and Kent swings his crutches forward. 

“Good day?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey closes the door behind him and Kent leans against him, puts his arm on the door and boxes him in. 

“Really good day,” Whiskey says before he captures Kent’s lips with his own. 

Kent’s crutches fall out from under his arms as he holds himself up against Whiskey. Kent kisses Whiskey over and over again, like he wants to collect them and save them for later. 

Whiskey decides to hoist Kent up, it’s awkward and strange with Kent’s air-cast, but Whiskey manages to pick him up and keep his lips on Kent’s and carry him over to the bed. 

“Are we doing this?” Whiskey asks. 

“Do you want to?” Kent asks and he’s sitting on the edge of the bed and he’s looking at Whiskey and then down at his hands. 

“I really do,” Whiskey says. 

Kent puts one hand on the back of Whiskey’s neck and presses their lips together. Whiskey runs his thumb over Kent’s bottom lip when they pull away. It’s soft and wet and he’s smiling. 

“You’re so pretty,” Whiskey says, he says it with awe and reverence, like he can’t believe he gets to touch him. 

Kent leans into his touch with his eyes closed. 

It’s soft and slow and they try really fucking hard to be quiet because there are guys with rooms on either side of them. Whiskey has to bite down on his own fist, Kent’s lips around his dick. 

The best part of it is when Whiskey tells Kent he’s going to use his bathroom and Kent follows him. He doesn’t leave, chirps in the morning be damned. He realizes now what a precious commodity that sharing a bed with Kent is. Kent presses himself against Whiskey’s back and tucks his neck against his shoulder. 

“Feels good,” Whiskey mumbles. 

“What does?”

“All of this,” Whiskey says, “You, the team. All the things that I thought would be a big deal… it’s still kind of a big deal, but less,” and then he yawns, “Feels good.”

It feels safe. Whiskey feels safe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i actually mean it when i say that this is very close to the end. i love them, we love growth


	39. today can we think about tomorrow and learn a little what we've been through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from come back home by the arkells

There are rules, of course there are rules. They can’t room together on roadies, they can’t bring their relationship onto the ice. Any issues that should arise can not affect the team in any meaningful way. Kent is allowed to keep his C after Whiskey promises them that there’s no planet in this solar system on which Kent would take it easy on him when it comes to training. Whiskey resists the urge to roll his eyes when GM Desrochers tells them that he thinks they’re very brave. Whiskey doesn’t feel brave for falling in love with someone, he feels human. 

They’re good at not breaking the rules, because they’re not rules either one of them is particularly tempted to break. They don’t tend to flirt in front of people and Whiskey’s never felt the urge to grab Kent’s hand in the middle of a crowd. He likes rooming with Danny, and it’s not like the rules say anything about Whiskey sneaking into Kent’s room, just that the team won’t put them together because they’re dating. It’s a technicality, but it’s one no one ever brings up, and if Danny chirps Whiskey about coming back to their hotel room at 3am looking flushed, then so be it. 

The one request, that Whiskey finds funnier than all the rest is this. If they’re going to “uh… pull a Zimmermann or something like that, can we please know at least two days ahead of time.”

They both laughed at that one, and Whiskey thinks about how awkward the PR rep looked when he had said that. 

“Motherfucker!” Whiskey’s standing in the hallway, he turns and sees Bobby, jumps a little bit at the aggression. 

“Not you, him,” Bobby points past him and Whiskey turns. He sees Kent standing outside of Coach St. Marie’s office. He got his cast off this weekend but he still doesn’t put all of his weight on his ankle. 

“Woah,’ Kent says, he looks as startled as Whiskey does, “What did I do.”

“You have no excuse not to come to dinner tonight,” Bobby says with a devious smirk.

“Shit,” Kent says with a smile and he limps over to where Whiskey and Bobby are standing. 

“No more blowing us off,” Bobby says, “Emily’s making roast chicken. 5 p.m. sharp.”

And Kent finally smiles, “I’ll be there. Only if he’s invited,” Kent gestures to Whiskey. 

“You’re an ass,” Whiskey elbows him. 

“Shit, I was just gonna kick you out for the night,” Bobby jokes. 

Whiskey gets home and Piper’s sitting at the kitchen counter doing homework, Avery’s in the living room with a colouring book. He can smell something in the oven but he has no hope of identifying what it is. 

“Daddy!” Piper shouts. 

Whiskey’s gotten used to this post-practice moment. When Bobby opens the front door and Piper comes running from wherever she is in the house, Avery follows quickly behind. Bobby hugs his kids and scoops Avery up into his arms and Whiskey gives Piper a little fist bump. Usually Piper asks him if he wants to go outside and they practice until dinner time. 

Tonight though, Emily’s making Piper finish a book report that she’s left until the last minute before she’s allowed to do absolutely anything else. Whiskey sits in the living room. Avery’s on the floor with her colouring book, feet kicked out behind her. 

“Whatcha workin’ on?” Whiskey asks. 

Avery holds up a colouring book page of a giraffe, she’s chosen to colour the giraffe purple with pink spots, Whiskey thinks it’s nice. 

“You know I never told ‘ya,” Whiskey says, “Thanks for making valentines with me a couple weeks ago. I gave mine to someone really special.”

Avery looks at him, cocks her head to the side. 

“Kenny,” she says. 

“Uh,” Whiskey stammers, first of all surprised that he’s just heard her say what he’s pretty sure is the first word she’s spoken in all the time she’s known him, “Uh yeah… he’s… how did you…”

Avery looks at him blankly, “Duh,” she says and then she turns back to her colouring book. 

Piper plops herself down on the couch next to Whiskey. 

“How good are you at sports that aren’t hockey?” Piper asks. 

“Uh,” Whiskey says, “I played lacrosse when I was a kid, I’m not bad at basketball.”

“What about baseball?” Piper asks. 

“I’m probably decent,” Whiskey says, “Why?”

“I’m gonna try out for the baseball team at school,'' she says. “Tryouts are next week because the season starts in the middle of March, can we play catch instead of hockey?” she asks.

“Oh,” Whiskey says, “Yeah, sure.”

“Sweet! You can borrow Dad’s baseball glove.”

They end up in the backyard for fear of breaking windows if they play in the driveway.

“So what’s the sudden interest in baseball?” Whiskey asks, he throws the ball high in the air and Piper catches it. 

“I think I want a summer sport,” she says, “Some of the other kids on my team play summer hockey, but I don’t think I want to this year,” Piper says. 

“Lacrosse was my summer sport,” Whiskey says. 

Piper nods. 

“I’m not very good at baseball, but it’s fun.”

“That’s good, kid,” Whiskey says, “Sports are supposed to be fun, even if you’re bad.”

“Yeah!” Piper grins, “I still really like hockey, but I bet I’ll like it even more in September when it’s hockey season again.”

Whiskey catches Piper’s throw and throws the ball at her. She misses it and runs to retrieve it. Whiskey can’t do much to correct her stance or give her any tricks. He can only stand out here and talk with her while they toss a ball around. Bobby’s glove doesn’t fit him right, but that doesn’t matter. It’s just fun, sports are fun. 

He hears the screen door open, he turns around and sees Kent, Avery trails behind him. 

“Hi!” Piper shouts, she throws the ball at Whiskey, Whiskey catches it in his glove and turns to face Kent. 

“I was surprised you two weren’t in the driveway when I got here,” Kent says. 

“Switchin’ it up,” Whiskey shrugs. 

“I’m trying out for the baseball team!” Piper declares. 

“Right on, Pipes,” Kent says, “You know one of our coaches played baseball  _ and  _ hockey in college,” he adds. 

“Was it Rebecca Ryder?” Piper asks, fire in her eyes. 

“Yeah,” Kent says, “She told me once that the baseball actually made her better at hockey. And it was fun, obviously.”

“I’m having fun,” Piper says. 

“You look like it,” Kent says. 

“You wanna tap in?” Whiskey asks, “My arm’s a little sore.”

“Sure,” Kent says, he takes the glove from Whiskey and keeps talking to Piper. She demands more information about Becks. Whiskey sits on the porch step with Avery. Eventually Avery decides that she wants to run into the yard and play with Kent and Piper too. So Kent tosses the ball to Avery, gently, he’s patient when her throws are wildly off target and he has to retrieve the ball. Whiskey watches with a small smile on his face, a warmth in his cheeks that he can’t quite explain. 

He goes inside for a glass of water and an advil, his shoulder just a little bit sore from tossing the ball around. He finds the bottle of advil in the junk drawer and washes it down. 

“Well that’s just adorable,” Emily says, she stands behind him, looking out the kitchen window. 

“What?” Whiskey asks. 

“Your boy,” Emily answers with a smile. 

Whiskey turns to look out the window. He sees Kent kneeling beside Avery miming the correct way to throw a baseball. He’s gesturing wildly as he does it and Piper’s laughing at him. The warm feeling in his cheeks returns. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “He really is.”

“You better marry that boy,” she adds. 

Whiskey chuckles awkwardly, “I’m definitely going to say yes when he asks me to move in with him, but uh…” he trails off, scratches his neck, “I don’t know if we’re the marrying type.”

“Hmm,” Emily says, “Are you not the marrying type or are you just telling yourself that because you think you can’t.”

“Don’t make me think about that,” Whiskey says, deadpan, but joking. 

Emily rolls her eyes but smiles at him. 

“I’m just glad he makes you happy, Connor,” Emily pats him on the shoulder. 

“He does,” Whiskey says, “I want to make him happy to.”

“Oh trust me,” Emily says, “You do. You’re the best pair of hockey uncles my daughters have ever had.”

“Thanks,” Whiskey says, “for everything, by the way,” Whiskey says, “I’ll never be able to thank you enough for letting me stay here,” Whiskey says. 

“You don’t need to thank us,” Emily says, “You’re a part of the family now.”

“Thank you for that too,” Whiskey says. 

He’ll never have the words for how important that was to him. How crucial a part of getting better they all were, he hopes she knows. 

Emily clears her throat, “So when do you think he’s going to ask you to move in?”

“I don’t know,” Whiskey says, “He’ll overthink it for at least a week before he actually does it.”

Emily laughs, “Sounds like him.”

Whiskey smiles, “I love it here, you know that, right?” he says. 

“Oh my gosh, that was never in question,” Emily assures him, “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, but if you moved out tonight, I’d understand.”

Whiskey clears his own throat, a lump quickly forming. 

“Will you set the table for me, sweetheart,” she finally says, “You can put out the wine glasses too, Kent brought a bottle of white. For the girls too, they like to drink juice out of them for fancy dinners.”

Whiskey smiles at that and takes some plates out of the cupboard. 

Kent and the girls come in through the backdoor with red cheeks and laughter falling from their mouths. 

Kent’s holding Avery who looks worn out and Piper’s following behind him.

“Mom! Can I go to the mall with Kent tomorrow? He says he’ll help me pick out a baseball bat for tryouts!” Piper runs into the kitchen, sliding on her socks. 

“Oh?” Emily says. 

“Birthday present,” Kent shrugs. 

“Oh you don’t have to do that,”

Kent’s saying, “No I want to,” when Whiskey hears the front door open and Bobby’s walking in with a grocery bag full of last minute dinner supplies and Piper’s running to say hi and Kent and Emily are still talking about Piper’s baseball aspirations and Whiskey hears Piper asking Bobby what’s in his grocery bag and Avery’s pulling on Whiskey’s sleeve and she shows him her newest colouring book page, this one’s a bright blue penguin. 

“Nice,” Whiskey says. 

Avery hands him a crayon and flips the page. 

“You want me to help?” He asks. 

She nods.

Whiskey can still hear everyone else talking, there’s laughing, and music coming from the kitchen and when he looks at Avery her cheeks are still red from being outside. He carefully colours in the spots of a cheetah while Avery watches him. That’s what he loves about this house, about being here, it feels so full all the time. There’s always something happening, someone talking, or singing, or screaming, or laughing. It doesn’t feel like the house he grew up in even a little bit, but it feels familiar. He knows this feeling from somewhere. 

It’s a testament to the fact that he’s doing well that he doesn’t wonder how long it will last or how it’s going to be taken away from him. 

Dinner goes well. There’s no way it could have gone wrong. Whiskey took a long time to learn what family meant to him, he thought he knew at Samwell, that family and team meant the same thing. When that wasn’t true in Detroit, he thought maybe it was Kent, that that’s how it worked. Whiskey feels it now, family, even if he doesn’t have the words for it. 

Piper insisted on sitting next to Kent, so Whiskey sits across from him, next to Avery, Bobby and Emily on opposite ends of the table. 

They listen to Piper talk about her book report and how she won her gym class’ game of every kid for themselves dodgeball. When Whiskey asks Avery if she had fun at school, she nods her head with a bright smile on her face.

They play cards on the floor when dinner is over. They clear the dishes and leave them on the counter, cleaning can happen tomorrow. Avery sits on Bobby’s lap since she doesn’t want to play on her own. Piper and Kent take it incredibly seriously from the start. and Whiskey can’t stop laughing about it. Whiskey, for his own part, still isn’t clear on the rules of the game they’re playing

Piper and Kent trade wins, Piper amasses a tower of poker chips in front of her, Whiskey runs out pretty soon. Piper cleans out her own father and Avery isn’t even interested in playing, instead she sits in between Kent and Piper and sorts their chips by colour.

“You know, we can call it quits,” Emily says. 

“”No!” Piper and Kent say at the same time and they glare at each other. 

When Avery’s dones playing with the poker chips, she crawls into Whiskey’s lap and falls asleep. Whiskey’s not quite sure what to do when a six year old falls asleep on you, but the right answer seems to be, be quiet and sit still. Whiskey pulls out his phone. He looks over at Kent trying to one-up Piper, Bobby and Emily have long since decided to lay on the couch “resting their eyes.” Despite Kent’s intense competitive streak, Whiskey still thinks he’s the most wonderful thing in the room. 

**Whiskey:** **question**

 **Whiskey:** **if i got married, which one of you would be my best man?**

 **Ford:** **what?**

 **Tango:** **W H A T ?**

 **Whiskey:** **in the hypothetical**

 **Ford:** **weird fucking hypothetical bud.**

 **Tango:** **But it’s me. I’m your best man**

 **Ford:** **oh no fucking way T, I’m way more organized than you**

 **Tango:** **you could be the maid of honour**

 **Ford:** **that’s sexist**

 **Tango:** **what? How?????**

 **Ford:** **I can do anything a man can do, including be Whiskey’s best ban**

 **Tango:** **wait, are you getting married?**

 **Whiskey:** **I don’t know. I’m sure fucking in love with him though.**

 **Tango:** **you’re back** ** _together_** **together, right?**

 **Whiskey:** **yeah.**

 **Ford:** **!!!! cute**

 **Whiskey:** **I’m realizing more and more that I’m actually an idiot for breaking up with him in the first place.**

 **Ford:** **Not to say I called it but**

 **Tango:** **she called it.**

 **Whiskey:** **after having to witness your dumb ass fwb disaster, i refuse to let you two act like you’re so much better than me**

 **Tango:** **😠**

 **Ford:** **okay but i am better than you**

 **Tango:** **you’re better than both of us, we’ve established that**

 **Ford:** **:)**

 **Whiskey:** **you’ve gone soft on the chirps since you started dating, T**

 **Tango:** **what can i say, she’s a delight.**

 **Whiskey:** **blegh**

 **Whiskey:** **seriously though, I miss you guys**

 **Ford:** **We miss you too**

 **Whiskey:** **I’ll have to get you out here for a game soon**

 **Ford:** **yes you will Mr. NHL money**

 **Whiskey:** **Also Kent’s spent 20 minutes trying to figure out a way to beat this nine year old at blackjack.**

 **Ford:** **if it’s the kid you live with he’s fucked.**

 **Tango:** **hard agree, she seems like a cardshark**

 **Whiskey:** **is it weird that this nine year old is a total hustler?**

 **Tango:** **kinda**

Piper cleans Kent out in the final hand.

“Finally,” he hears Emily groan from the couch, “It is so incredibly past your bedtime.”

“It’s only 10 o’clock”

“It’s a school night, kiddo,” Bobby says. 

“Ugh,” Piper pouts, “I still beat you though,” Piper sticks her tongue out at Kent. 

“At least I don’t have a bed time,” Kent teases. 

“Yes you do,” Whiskey says, “11:30.”

Kent narrows his eyes and if looks could kill Whiskey’s pretty sure he’d be in the hospital at the very least. 

Whiskey stands up slowly, picking Avery up as he does. Her arms wrap around his neck and she doesn’t let go. 

“Come on,” Emily says, “We’ll bring her upstairs, you too missy,” she says pointedly at Piper.

Whiskey finds himself alone in the kitchen, Kent disappeared to go to the bathroom. He’s leaning against the counter, double tapping a picture that Tango sent to the groupchat, a meme that one of his students made that he is incredibly proud of. Ford and Whiskey have yet to tell them that they have absolutely no fucking clue what a meme made in a 10th grade math class means. 

Whiskey’s smiling at his friends when he feels hands on his waist. 

“Hi,” Kent says, and he presses his face into the crook of Whiskey’s neck. 

“Oh hello,” Whiskey says, he turns around so he’s facing Kent but leaning against the  “You colour one hell of a cheetah,” Kent says when they part. He’s looking at the colouring book page that he and Avery did, Bobby stuck it to the fridge. 

Whiskey laughs, “Avery’s the mastermind, she picked the colours, I’m just the grunt work. 

Whiskey’s slouching so he angles his face up to kiss Kent. 

“How do you feel about hanging out with Tango and Ford sometime soon?” Whiskey asks. 

“Strongly in favour,” Kent answers, “When were you thinking?”

“I dunno, sometimes soon though. I miss them.”

“Of course,” Kent says, “They can stay in my spare room.”

“Really?” Whiskey asks. 

“Yeah, I mean, I’ve got the room,” Kent wraps his arms around Whiskey’s waist and pulls him closer. 

“Good,” Whiskey says, “We’ll have a slumber party,” he teases.

“Yeah, I mean I only have the one extra bed, but we can get an air mattress.”

Whiskey snorts. Kent cocks his head to the side. 

“Oh, haven't you heard?” Whiskey says with a small laugh and Kent still looks confused, but Whiskey kisses him with a smile on his face. 

Whiskey explains and Kent’s not surprised, he just laughs, glad that he doesn’t have to go out and get an air mattress. 

“So,” Kent says, “Am I allowed to have a sleepover?”

“Yes,” Whiskey says, “But no funny business, having sex here would feel like having sex at my parents’ house.”

“You’ve never been opposed to that before.”

“Shut up,” Whiskey laughs. 

“That’s fine,” Kent says. He holds Whiskey’s hand while they walk down the stairs. They’re quiet, trying not to make the stairs creak. For no apparent reason, Whiskey lives here and it’s not like Bobby and Em are naive to the fact that Kent won’t be staying in the guest room. Still, they’re quiet. 

“You can borrow some of my clothes,” Whiskey says. 

He kicks off his khakis and polo shirt and pulls a hoodie on over his boxers. 

Kent nods. He opens the closet. 

“Hmmm, which hoodie should I steal today,” he jokes. 

Whiskey rolls his eyes. He sits in his bed, leaning against his pillows, content to watch Kent’s little performance. He makes a big show of going through Whiskey’s closet, examining each sweatshirt. His hands still somewhere near the back, his expression gets softer and a little more serious. 

“What is it?” Whiskey asks, he sits up a little, still mostly leaned against the pillows. 

“You still have this?” Kent pulls something off a hanger, Whiskey doesn’t see it at first, and then Kent shows it to him. It’s a jersey, with Whiskey’s name and number on the back. It’s an Aces jersey. The one Kent had sent him as a gift, so long ago that they were still calling each other friends. So long ago that they went on dates without realizing it. Kent’s holding the first proof that it actually happened, that Kent Parson actually loved him. 

“Oh,” Whiskey says, “yeah.”

“I can’t believe you kept it… hung it up.”

“What else was I supposed to do with it?”

“I dunno,” Kent says, “When we… broke up,” both of them still have trouble saying it, “when that happened, I shoved all your stuff into a box in the back of my closet so I didn’t have to look at it,” Kent says. 

“I did that in Detroit,” Whiskey admits, “But I hung it up when I got here for whatever reason, “I dunno,” Whiskey said, “It means too much to me to sit in a box.”

“It does?”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says like he can’t believe Kent doesn’t see that as clearly as he does. He remembers picking up a package that he didn’t remember ordering, remembers opening it in confusion. He remembers the strange twist in the bottom of his stomach, realising that Kent cared enough to not only send him the jersey, but he remembered his number. “I think I had a crush on you from the start, the first message. I probably loved you by, like, the second time we talked. That was the first sign that maybe it wasn’t hopeless,” Whiskey’s playing with a thread on his comforter. 

Kent’s still holding the jersey, rubbing the polyester between his fingers. 

“I would’ve kissed you after that game, the one you and Tango and Ford came too. Would’ve done it if I had the guts.”

“I wanted to,” Whiskey admits. 

Kent’s mouth hangs open, “I had no idea.”

“You had no idea that I liked you back then?”

“It never actually occurred to me, no.”

“I really did,” Whiskey says, “A lot.”

Kent looks down at the fabric, “I guess the Aces jersey is kind of dumb now,” he laughs. 

“I still love it,” Whiskey says, “Because I was always supposed to be on your team.”

“Are you aware that you’re the most romantic son of a bitc I’ve ever met, or do you just say shit.”

“ I think I just say shit,” Whiskey says. 

“God, I love you,” Kent says. 

Kent sets the jersey down on top of Whiskey’s dresser and jumps into the bed, he lands awkwardly on top of Whiskey and kisses him. 

“I saved the notes you wrote me too,” Whiskey says, “Even when I thought I hated you, I couldn’t get rid of them.”

He reaches over to his nightstand. He pulls out a sticky note and hands it to Kent. 

“Wow,” is all Kent manages to say. He presses his forehead to Whiskey’s. The note is still in Kent’s hand when Whiskey reaches for it. They hold the note in between them. 

“This is perfect,” Whiskey says, “I never thought I’d get here. When I was in Detroit and I had that concussion everything was dark and I was alone and I never even imagined this… this team, these friends… you. I never thought I’d have you again.”

“I never thought you’d want me again. Convinced myself that you shouldn’t.”

“You know that’s not true now, right?”

“I do.”

“Good.”

“This is… I feel the same. Kind of. Not exactly, but I never imagined a team like this, a GM who used the words “LGBT affirming environment,” in a meeting, or a coach who would stick her neck out so far just so we could be together. Fuck, I never even imagined a team cool enough to hire her in the first place. It’s just… feels good,” Kent says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey agrees, he brushes Kent’s hair out of his face, and looks him in the eyes. 

“I keep thinking about how long something this good can possibly last,” Kent says. 

“I’m sure the universe will find some way to shake things up,” Whiskey says, “but for now we’re just here. In the moment.”

“It’s a good moment,” Kent says, “Also I love it when you’ve clearly been to therapy this week, you start talking all mindful and stuff.”

“I see a sports psychologist, thank you very much.”

“That’s just a therapist who works out, you realize that right.”

They both laugh and then Kent yawns, he turns his face away from Whiskey’s and settles against his chest instead. Whiskey feels his heart jump and he thinks Kent feels it too. 

“You know,” Kent says, “I’ve got a lot of empty drawers at my place,”

“Is that so?” Whiskey says. He’s playing with Kent’s hair. 

“Yeah,” Kent says, “If you ever wanted to keep some of your stuff there, if you ever spent the night, or a couple nights… if that’s something you want.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “That sounds nice.”

“We don’t have to jump into anything, it’s there if you want it though.”

“I don’t think we’re jumping,” Whiskey says, “Just trying to catch up to where we were.”

“Where we were, but better.”

“But better,” Whiskey agrees. 

Whiskey goes to sleep thinking about which of his clothes he’s going to leave in Kent’s drawer. He thinks about the empty drawer on what should be his side of Kent’s bed. He decides that the drawers won’t be empty for one day longer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today on: subjecting you to my niche sports opinions via the medium of fanfiction: nine year olds specializing in one sport is bad for both their mental and physical health and having a summer and a winter season sport prevents repetitive strain injuries and mental burnout! Piper's shitty at baseball, but that funky little weirdo is happy! thank you for coming to my ted talk.   
> Alright folks, the next chapter is the last one of this particular endeavor, i hope you liked reading it as much as i liked writing it


	40. This one thing doesn't have to go away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from fireworks by the tragically hip

Kent has always been beautiful. Celebrities and supermodels don’t even begin to compare and he blows every single childhood crush out of the water. There has never been a time where Whiskey has looked Kent’s way and not thought about that. He thinks it quickly, in passing, when his sleeves ride up his arms. He can look serious and contemplative. He looks beautiful in an intellectual way sometimes, in a mysterious way. Sometimes he’s grinning and laughing and he looks beautiful in a goofy, happy way. Sometimes it’s charming and snarky, but it’s always there. Kent’s beautiful in different ways, but he’s always beautiful. 

“It’s just a little bit further,” Kent says

His cheeks are bright red from the cold, a scarf wrapped around his neck. He’s pulling Avery behind him on a sled. 

“This is probably the last big snow of the year, I promise this is worth it,” Kent says. 

They’ve been walking uphill for a while now, and the snow is slowly but steadily getting deeper. Piper is running ahead, but Whiskey can feel himself panting. 

“For a dude who just broke his ankle, you’re going real fucking fast,” Tango says. 

Kent picked him and Ford up from the airport this morning, he gave them about an hour to relax before he insisted on dragging them all on an adventure. 

“Yeah you’re gonna blow a tire before you can even play again tomorrow,” Bobby teases, “I should tell Becks you’ve got us hiking, she’ll either crush you or toss you on the first line.”

“Fuck off,” Kent grins and then he pulls Avery’s sled with one last heave. 

“Well, here it is,” Kent says, “The best sledding hill in all of Quebec.”

Whiskey stands next to Kent, and he has to say, Kent’s got a point. There are trees lining the hill, but not so many that it’s dangerous. It’s steep and long enough for a good sled, but not so steep that getting back up is going to be a problem. 

“Can we go mom!” Piper shouts. 

“Be careful!” Emily yells from where she stands, even if she’d said no, there’s nothing she could do to stop Piper and Avery from flying down the hill. 

Tango gestures to the sled he’d been dragging and then wiggles his eyebrows at Ford. 

“M’Lady?” He says, “Front or back?”

“Front, obviously,” she rolls her eyes, “Can you give us a good shove, Ken?”

“My pleasure,” Kent says. 

Once Tango and Ford are seated on the sled, Kent gives them a massive shove with his foot and they giggle and scream the entire way down

Whiskey watches as Tango wraps his arms around Ford and kisses her at the bottom of the hill. Whiskey feels himself blush, he looks over at Kent and Kent is picking Piper up and throwing her into a soft pile of snow and she’s giggling and screaming. 

Kent looks so many kinds of beautiful. He looks so relaxed. 

He hears laughter and little bit of huffing and puffing and then he sees Danny and his girlfriend, twin sons pulled behind them on a sled. 

“We heard Parse found the best sledding hill in the province, couldn’t miss out,” Danny grins wide, “The boys have never been.”

Whiskey’s pretty sure the twins can’t be more than four. 

“Wasn’t expecting you, D!” Bobby yells from the bottom of the hill. 

“Changed our mind at the last minute,” Danny yells down. 

Emily hugs Danny’s girlfriend and Emily listens attentively while Dinah tells the harrowing story of bundling the kids up in their winter clothes. 

“D!” Whiskey calls, “These are my roommates from college, this is Denice, and this is Tony,” he says. 

“Oh hell yeah!” Danny says, “You two in town for the game?”

“Yeah,” Tango says, “Whenever the Falcs play Whiskey we try to make an occasion out of it,” Ford adds. 

“Beautiful weekend to come up,” Danny says. 

He’s right, the snow is heavy and dense but the sun shines down on them. The ice that coated the trees last night is melting. 

Piper convinces Whiskey to go down the hill backward with her, by the time they’re back at the top, Barnesy and Jonesy are there with inflatable tubes on their backs. Whiskey doesn’t even say hello before they’re running and jumping so they land in the middle of the tubes and flying down the hill. Danny’s dog is running up and down the hill chasing Piper and Avery. 

“Did you tell the whole team?” Whiskey asks Kent. 

Kent shrugs, “Told Danny he might want to bring the kids.”

Whiskey nods. 

“Are you okay?’ Kent asks quietly. 

Whiskey nods. He watches Piper pulling Danny’s sons up the hill on her sled, sees Barnesy and Jonesy playing tag with Avery and the dog, and he smiles. This is in fact, very okay. This is better than okay. 

“Good,” Kent says, and he squeezes Whiskey’s shoulder and smiles. 

“You’ve been sledding before, right?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey nods, “A couple times at Samwell. Not really before that.”

“Oh man,” Kent says, “We used to go all the time.”

“How’d you know about this hill?” Whiskey asks. 

“Asked around,” Kent says, “Becks was the one who told me about the park actually.”

“Damn, she’s useful,” Whiskey says. 

They’re interrupted by the sound of someone else’s voice. 

“Hope you don’t mind that I brought some friends, boys!” Whiskey turns and sees Snowy trudging up the hill. Whiskey squints and does a double take before he realizes that Jack and Bitty are following close behind him. 

“That man is the enemy tonight, Dustin!” Kent points dramatically at Jack. 

“Lord,” Whiskey hears Bitty mutter. 

“Jam rations aren’t free Parser, gotta let him hang,” Snowy smiles. 

“As your gracious captain, I’ll allow this fraternization just the once,” Kent says, and then he pulls Jack into a bro hug, leaving Bitty and Whiskey to nod awkward greetings in each other’s direction. 

“Are you playing tomorrow, Kent?” Bitty asks politely. 

“That’s the plan,” Kent smiles. 

“Good for y’all!” Bitty says, Whiskey thinks he does actually mean it even if it sounds strained. 

“Uh, Tango and Ford are here if you wanted to say hi,” Whiskey says, leaving Kent and Jack to talk like excited golden retrievers. Whiskey fully expects to com back to find one of them with the other in a headlock. 

Whiskey and Bitty find Tango and Ford sitting on one of the snow covered picnic tables under a tree at the top of the hill. 

“Bitty!” Ford says and she launches herself at him, wrapping him in a hug. 

“Are you and Jack here early?” Tango asks before giving Bitty a hug of his own. 

“We came up to see his parents, I’ll return Jack to his team tomorrow morning,” Bitty says. Whiskey recognizes the twinkle of affection in his eye. He never used to understand the days where Bitty got all mopey because he hadn’t seen Jack in a few days. He gets it now. 

Whiskey leaves Bitty talking to Ford and Tango because Piper’s beckoning him over. Avery is sitting in the snow with her head cast downward. 

“What’s up?” Whiskey asks. 

Piper just beckons him closer until he’s crouching down in front of Avery. Avery looks up at him. Whiskey only has time to register the sly grin on his face before he’s being nailed in the face with a snowball. 

“Holy fuuuu-nkysnowballs” he shouts, biting off his swear at the end of the sentence. 

Avery and Piper are both squealing, giggling and running away from him. 

“Oh you’re not getting away with that!” Whiskey yells and he gathers a handful of snow and lobs it at Piper knowing she was clearly the mastermind behind this. 

“Don’t kill my kids!” Bobby shouts. 

“Unless they deserve it,” Emily adds. 

It takes two seconds for Barnesy and Jonesy to realize what’s happening and start kicking snow at each other. Snow is flying and Whiskey hears Danny’s dog barking and he sees Dinah and Danny getting in on the snowball fight. Whiskey feels a snowball hit him in the back of the head and he hears giggling. He turn around and sees Ford standing behind him red handed. Before Whiskey can retaliate, Tango runs from behind her and throws her over his shoulder. She shrieks and laughs and turns around and watches Snowy drop into the splits to avoid a hit from Jack. 

Whiskey feels his cheeks getting ready and he’s sweating in his winter jacket and he can feel the grin on his face.

Whiskey picks up another handful of snow and he lobs it in Bobby’s direction. Bobby ducks and he thinks it’s about to hit Emily in the face, but she moves out of the way. The snowball hits someone else in the face and Whiskey drops his hands to his side. He’s looking at Kelli and Swoops and their son, Kelli has snow on her face. 

“What the hell are you guys doing here?” Whiskey asks. 

Kelli doesn’t answer, because there’s another snowball flying at Whiskey. He lets it hit him, he probably deserves it. 

“Woah! I didn’t think you’d actually show up!” Kent says. 

“I don’t have any game until Sunday, and Kell has a concert she’s going to in the city tonight,” Swoops says, “Timing worked out, and you promised the world’s nicest snow hill,” Swoops says. 

“And I deliver,” Kent says smugly. 

“Eh, it’s alright,” Kelli teases. 

“Who are you here to see?” Whiskey asks. 

“Who did you say it was honey?” Swoops asks, “John Johnson?” 

“Jack Johnson,” Kelli corrects. 

“Ohhhh, banana pancakes, right.”

The snowball fight winds down when Barnesy and Jonesy dive down the hill to avoid Piper and Danny. 

“I brought snacks!” Bitty declares, and he pulls a backpack out of seemingly nowhere and sets it on the picnic table, “There’s plenty for everyone, but little ones first!” 

Bitty hands out pre-made Almond butter and peach jam sandwiches and starts slicing one of the loaves of bread he brought to make more. Whiskey sits on top of the picnic table and tries to help Bitty where he can. He helps Bitty tidy up and then they both sit on top of the picnic table eating their own sandwiches. 

“Lord, it is freezing,” Bitty mutters. 

“Oh thank god,” Whiskey says. 

“Huh?”

“I’ve been wanting to complain all day but I didn’t want to get chirped by the Canadians.”

“Sweetie, Kent is as American as they come.”

“He’s Canadian when it comes to his cold tolerance,” Whiskey says through clenched teeth, “You’d think I personally offended him when I put on a sweater under my jacket.”

“Don’t I know it,” Bitty says, “Jack will shovel the driveway in a t-shirt if I let him.’

“Kent’s always going on and on about windchill and how it’s not actually cold unless it’s windy. Like it’s below freezing, windy or not-” 

“Cold is cold! Exactly!” Bitty finishes the sentence for him. 

Whiskey laughs genuinely with Bitty, he thinks for one of, if not the first time. 

“So,” Whiskey says, “Tango and Ford are staying with Kent and we’re going to get dinner and rent a movie, you and Jack can join us,” Whiskey offers. 

“Oh, um,” Bitty says. Every other time they’ve hung out, it’s been because Jack and Kent wanted to. 

“You don’t have to,” Whiskey says, “But you’re welcome to. Kind of an SMH reunion. A small one, but still,” Whiskey adds. 

“Jack would like that,” Bitty says, and then he clears his throat, “And so would I, actually, I’d like that very much.”

“Okay great,” Whiskey says. 

Bitty shows up to dinner with a pie. Whiskey is not sure how he managed to bake in the hotel room that he assumes Jack and Bitty are staying in, but he figures it’s best not to ask. Tango, of course, asks. Whiskey doesn’t even bother hiding his disinterest as he walks away. His apologies to the SMH leadership groups of the past, but Connor Whisk couldn’t preheat a toaster oven. 

“So I’m thinking we order, I haven’t gone grocery shopping this week,” Kent shouts from the kitchen. 

They end up deciding on a place none of them have tried yet and just ordering the menu. Whiskey sits on the floor in front of the coffee table beside Tango, both of them insisting on giving up their spot on the couch for their significant others. The movie is bright and goofy and funny in a way that doesn’t ask you to think too hard about it. Whiskey relaxes against the couch, stomach full of shrimp alfredo and grape juice. He’s sitting in between Kent’s legs, Kent puts his hand on top of Whiskey’s head, gently running his fingers through it. It’s dark in the living room, so Whiskey doesn’t move away. And besides, Bitty and Jack are sharing a couch cushion and Ford is lying on the floor with her head in Tango’s lap. 

He thinks he’ll leave this sweater here tonight, that’s one less thing to eventually move. 

The cat sneaks onto his lap, resting her head on his thigh. He thinks some of the calmest moments of his life have come just like this, Kent touching him gently, him holding the cat, sometimes the other way around. 

Ford yawns as the credits roll and Bitty untangles himself from Jack’s legs. 

“Honey,” Bitty whispers because Jack’s fallen asleep. Jack wakes with a little start, but Bitty puts his hand on his thigh and Jack calms down. 

“We should head out, I’ll drive,” Bitty says, voice still quiet. 

Kent turns on the living room lights and everyone groans. 

“Sorry,” he whispers. 

Jack waves off his apology. Bitty loops his arm around Jack’s waist and fishes the keys out of Jack’s jeans pocket. 

“Thank you so much for having us,” Bitty says, “You folks have a lovely home.”

“Oh!” Kent says, “Uh, I mean Whiskey doesn’t… well he lives with Bobby… like… uh most of the time-” He stammers. 

Whiskey puts his hand on Kent’s shoulders, “Yeah we do,” he says with a soft smile. 

Vulnerability isn’t his strong suit, certainly not in front of Bitty, but this feels like the right time to say the right thing. 

Bitty smiles, genuinely, Whiskey thinks. 

“See you tomorrow, Zimms,” Kent says. 

“You’re going down, Kenny,” Jack smirks. 

“Oh yeah, tell that to the outdoor classic.”

Jack rolls his eyes, “Lucky shot,” he directs it at Whiskey. 

“Oh was it?” Whiskey taunts. 

“Alright that’s enough,” Bitty says, “Come on sweetpea, it’s past your bedtime.”

“You’ve got a bedtime, old man?” Kent snorts. 

“You’re older than me,” Jack says. 

“Your bedtime is 11:30, shut the fuck up,” Whiskey says. 

Kent watches out the window until Jack and Bitty are safely up the road in their rental car. Then he gets some pillows out of his linen closet and hands then to Tango. 

“Changed the sheets for ‘ya,” he winks in front of the guest room. 

“Gross,” Whiskey fakes a gag while Tango blushes. 

“No deets,” Tango says.

“I don’t fuckin’ want them,” Whiskey says. 

Ford rolls her eyes and walks into the guest room without another word. 

Kent has always slept on the same side of the bed, the entire time they’ve been together. Whiskey feels like this side of the bed was always meant to be his. He imagines Kent lying in here, sleeping close to the door, refusing to cross over to Whiskey’s side of the bed. 

“Hey,” Kent says when he crawls under the covers and presses his head against Whiskey’s chest. 

“Hey,” Whiskey says and kisses the top of Kent’s head. 

“I love you,” Kent says. 

“I love you more,” Whiskey says. 

“Not possible,” Kent says through a yawn. 

Kit sleeps on top of his feet. That feels incredibly comfortable. 

“You look so pretty,” Whiskey mutters, half asleep. 

“I really do,” Kent mutters back. 

Whiskey snorts with his eyes half closed. He drags his thumb over the ridge of Kent’s eyebrow. 

“You think we’ll win tomorrow?” Whiskey asks. 

“I always think I’m going to win,” Kent says, “You can’t think about losing if you want to win.”

“Sounds like sport psychology,” Whiskey mumbles. 

“It is. Manifesting or whatever. But if you think about how you’ll fuck up, then you’ll fuck up. It’s a self perpetuating cycle or whatever.”

Whiskey nods, Kent feels the movement. He wraps his arms around Whiskey, bringing himself closer to Whiskey’s body. 

“Today was a good day,” Kent says. 

“You scout a good hill,” Whiskey says. 

“Fuck yeah I do,” Kent says, “It was nice. With everybody there, and the kids, and Swoops and Kelli showing up. It was perfect.”

“Could’ve used some more sun,” Whiskey says. 

“You’re such a baby.”

Whiskey rolls his eyes. 

“I am serious though,” Kent says, “I’m so fucking happy.”

Whiskey thinks about it for a second. He thinks about Tango and Ford and Jack and Bitty and the team. He thinks about Piper and Avery and Bobby and Emily. He decides that he’s happy. He’s content in his worst moments and outwardly joyful in the best. That’s a pretty good feeling, and he thinks it’s going to stick around. 

“Me too,” Whiskey says. 

Kent takes great pleasure in messing up Whiskey’s hair at the end of the night. He gels it, likes it to be neat during the day, but it’s free reign at the end of the night. 

“I love those kids,” Kent says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey agrees, “I wouldn’t be here, with you, this happy, if they hadn’t let me stay with them.”

Kent nods, “Maybe we can be that for someone some day.”

“I’d like that,” Whiskey says. 

“Being some nervous rookie’s surrogate parents.” Kent laughs. 

“Hey!” Whiskey punches him playfully. 

“Are you denying you were nervous.”

“I wasn’t nervous so much as I was a mess with a seperated shoulder.”

“Well now you’re just splitting hairs,” Kent kisses the bridge of his nose. 

Whiskey hears Kent breathing but he can tell he’s not asleep. 

“So when do I stop going back to Bobby’s?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent props himself up on his elbow and looks right at Whiskey. 

“Any time you want,” Kent says. 

“So if I just didn’t leave after tonight, you wouldn’t mind?”

“Not even a little bit,” Kent says, “You’ve already got your stuff in my closet.”

Whiskey feels a little bit lighter with those words, he feels filled with energy.

He pounces on top of Kent, kisses him down into the mattress, fingers twirling through his hair. 

“You’ve got heart eyes,” Kent says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “For you, always.”

Kent’s thrown by that just a little bit, but he recovers quickly, hitting Whiskey with some heart eyes of his own. 

“Move in,” Kent says, “For real. Stay here, stay with me.”

“What will the team say?”

“I don’t care.”

“What about the media?”

“I don’t care. We can be roommates for all they know.”

“What will Kit say?” Whiskey adds to tease. 

“Oh you’re right, my cat is a notorious homophobe, it would never work,” Kent deadpans. 

Whiskey laughs, kissed Kent again. 

“Can we get a dog?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent smiles, shakes his head lovingly, “We can talk about it.”

“Finally,” Whiskey says. 

“I only said no before because we didn’t have a backyard.”

Whiskey didn’t realize how much he missed the word “we”

“No excuse now.”

“There’s lots of room to run around back there,” Kent says. 

“There sure is,” Whiskey smiles. 

Whiskey brings Kent’s hand to his lips, he kisses Kent’s ring finger. That wasn’t a conscious choice, but he’s kind of obsessed with that. 

“Did you know that I’m really proud of you?” Kent asks, voice full of sleep. 

Whiskey blushes, “You’re getting sappy,” Whiskey says. 

“No, I mean it,” Kent says, “I’m so proud of you. For so many things. You were right when you told me I can’t understand how hard you have to work. You’ve worked so hard for all of this,” Kent says. 

“You don’t have to-”

“No, “ Kent says, “I’m right, just let me gush about you for a second. You’re the love of my life, I’m allowed to.”

Whiskey’s blushing. 

“It’s not fair how hard you had to work, all the shit that got thrown at you this year, but I’m so proud of you. I’m so proud that you’re here right now.”

“I’m proud of both of us,” Whiskey says, “ _ We  _ worked hard for this.” Whiskey loops their fingers together. 

“Yeah,” Kent says, “I like that.”

“I like you,” Whiskey says, “More than anything.’

“Even hockey,” Kent asks softly. 

“So much more than hockey,” Whiskey answers.

“I like you more than hockey too,” Kent says. 

Kent kisses Whiskey again. It’s so soft, so gentle and Whiskey melts into it. Whiskey knows he can be a good person on his own. And honestly, he is his own person. He could do this without Kent, but it’s so much better that Kent’s here. 

Whiskey finds his hand on Kent’s thigh. He remembers one time, when they were still hooking up and not talking. He remembers running his hand over the tattoos on his thigh. He remembers his hand catching on something rough. A band-aid. He remembers his heart sinking as he remembered what tattoo was under it. His own handwriting, his own  _ I Love You.  _ Writing it had somehow felt so much more permanent than saying it ever had. 

Kent’s thigh is smooth tonight. Kent stills as he realizes where Whiskey’s hand has landed. 

“I do,” Whiskey says, “I love you and I never stopped.”

“I’ve been in love with you for so long,” Kent says, “Swoops’ll tell you,” he says, “I came home that night after the game you came from and whined to him about how being in love with you was wildly inconvenient,” Kent says. 

Whiskey laughs. 

“It really was the least convenient thing we could have done.”

“Worth it,” Kent says. 

“I don’t know when I realized I love you,” Kent says, “I just always have.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop,” Whiskey says. 

Kent nods, “Me either.”

That’s the last thing they say to each other before Kent falls asleep with his head buried in Whiskey’s sweater. He likes the smell of Whiskey’s detergent. 

Tango and Ford have Kent’s tickets. They drive to the rink together. Kent drops Ford and Tango off at a fancy restaurant with his credit card and tells them to go wild, shrugs them off before they can thank him so profusely. 

Whiskey takes a breath before they walk into the rink. He doesn’t know why this game feels so consequential. 

Whiskey’s nervous before every game. His body does things he can’t control. He gets nauseous, he gets shaky. The phantom pain in his shoulder starts to twinge. He’s sitting in his stall before the game. Jack had said a small and courteous hello in the hallway, but he was serious. They’re both serious about it, they can be friends after the game. 

He’s holding his hands in between his thighs to keep them from shaking. 

“Any points we can get are important,” Becks is saying. Coach St. Marie gives her the pre-game speeches most nights, she has a unique skill to get the team hyped up. 

“We can’t sacrifice any points. We still haven’t clinched, a win tonight is going to help us do that, a win tonight might be the difference between first place in the division and last place,” Becks says, she has her hands in her pockets, “so let’s fucking win then,” Becks says. 

Whiskey’s hands are shaking again. It’s stupid, he knows there’s no reason for it. He’s a third line player on a team that has Kent Parson on the first line. They’re good. There’s no reason to believe they don’t have it in them to win. Whiskey’s brain doesn’t listen to him. He pulls his chest pads on over his underarmour. He clenches his fist, feels his arm shaking. 

Whiskey worked his whole life for this. For hockey, to be a professional athlete. This is his  _ job  _ and that’s insane and the coolest thing in the world. He loves hockey. But he realizes more and more every day that it’s hard to love a thing. Things, by definition, can’t love you back. Sometimes it feels like hockey hates him, like it’s trying to knock him down and keep it there. He thinks if he asked anyone else, they’d agree. To love hockey, you have to acknowledge that it won’t love you back, that every day you’re fighting a battle with a kid’s game and one day, the kid’s game is going to win. One day you’ll put on skates and it will be the last time. Hockey doesn’t love him, and it doesn’t have to. That’s not what hockey’s for. 

Danny is thinking about getting a labradoodle to keep his other dog happy. Bobby has pictures of his kids to show Coach St. Marie. Barnesy and Jonesy have a theory that swallowing protein powder dry will give you more energy than mixing it. They’re currently testing it. Becks is narrowing her eyes at them, trying to figure out if she should step in.

In 15 minutes he’s going to step out onto the ice. He’s going to play a children’s game. He’s going to take a stick in his hands and he’s going to skate up the ice and try to get a rubber puck into the back of the net. And it might knock him on his ass. It might beat him. Any night, this game might win. For 60 minutes, he’s going to give it everything he’s got, he’ll put his heart into it. He’ll think about winning. But he might not. That’s the nature of this, that’s what’s kind of reassuring about it in a strange kind of fucked up way. There’s always an answer at the end of the night. Who won? Who was better? It’s just a game, in the middle of the season.

And then he gets to go home. To play catch with Piper or colour with Avery, maybe call Tango and Ford. Maybe, he’ll answer some messages from the SMH groupchat, or he’ll talk to Rachel and catch up. They’re the kind of friends who can just drop in on each other once every couple months. He should call his mom. He should go for a run, he should cancel his subscription to that meal prep service. 

Kent. He can go home and he can just sit with Kent. He could go over to Kent’s place and never leave, Kent wouldn’t ask him to. He might tonight, maybe in a couple days, maybe in a couple weeks. Kent walks over to Whiskey’s stall, he puts his hand on Whiskey’s shoulder. 

“You good?”

“Good,” Whiskey says. 

He’s going to play a game. In three hours, he’ll know who won. It could be the Nordiques, it could be the Falcs. One of them is going to win. Whiskey wants it to be them. He gets to go home with Kent after no matter what 

Hockey doesn’t care about him. But Kent? Kent’s an entirely different story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end <3  
> I just wanted the gang to get back together this chapter, and for some more heart eyes content about these doofs becing good with kids and loving each other and their friends.  
> thanks for coming on this ride with me, y'all. this was a fun fic to write and i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it. I definitely won't be disappearing off the face of the earth or anything now that this is done, but i'm in school and i have some other fics i want to finish before i start on the next big thing for whiskey and kent. so to finish things off, thank you for reading, thank you for your kudos and bookmarks and all your very sweet comments. take care of yourselves, and i'm always on tumblr at omg-whiskey if you want to see some significantly dumber content from me.


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